Mother Freedom, Carry Me Home
by DebbieB
Summary: AU. 1980, A banished Tracy Quartermaine disappears, determined to leave the past behind. 2004, a fire at the PC Hotel drags Tracy Walker away from her new life, back to the world she tried to forget and the people she left behind.
1. She's Gone to the Waters

_**Part One: She's Gone to the Waters**_

_The view from her penthouse was beautiful. Tracy stood in the dim light of her apartment, staring out over the city as it burned beneath her. She was struck, as she often was, by the utter simplicity of fire, powerful, destructive, yet remarkably uncomplicated She felt she could reach out beyond the glass, beyond the distance, and press her hand into the flames. It seemed so close to her as she watched the city go up in an apocalyptic inferno._

_A voice behind her cried out in pain, and she turned casually to see who it was._

_Daddy was on the floor, crawling toward a bottle of heart medication. Tracy smiled at him, her heart filling with love. Daddy was smart. Daddy was strong._

_Help me, he cried. Tracy, please help me._

_She breathed out a contented sigh. All she had to do was hand him the pills, and everything would be fine. They could watch the city burn together, just like they always had. She started to walk toward him and found she could not move._

_Her smile faded._

_Tracy, honey, please. It hurts. Be a good girl. Get Daddy his pills…._

_She struggled now as the heat from the city began to filter through the windows. She turned, frightened, as the fire raged just outside her window. Daddy was on the floor. Daddy was dying._

_If she smashed through the window, she could fly down before the flames reached the apartment. She could be safe. _

_But Daddy would die without his medication. She cried out in frustration, a primal scream of rage as her feet refused to run, as her arms refused to flail. Her heart alone retained the ability to move as it pounded manically against her rib cage._

_Tracy, how could you? How could you do this to your own father?_

_I'm trying, Daddy. I can't move. I'm trying._

_The flames were getting closer. She could feel her skin beginning to blister. It was too late. It was too late. She screamed as the windows exploded inward and flames engulfed them both._ / 

February 3, 2004

Seattle, Washington

Tracy Walker sat bolt upright in bed, her body drenched in sweat. The satin nightgown she wore clung to her skin, and her hair was limp and damp. She turned to look at the alarm clock. Three in the morning…

"Damn," she gasped as she struggled to calm her breathing. The images slowly began to fade from her mind, and she let herself fall back on the hot fabric of her pillow. She counted to ten and backwards again. She focused on her center and tried to picture her inner core, bright and neon blue, spherical with the dents of a thousand lifetimes covering every inch of its surface. She tried every stupid New Age trick she could imagine to distance the now from the then, to separate her waking from her dreaming.

Finally, she did what she should have done in the first place. She picked up the phone and dialed. "Annabeth, I'm sorry."

The voice on the other end was accented and very groggy. "Tracy? What time is it?"

"I want a drink. Don't kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you. Oh, dear lord. It's three in the morning."

"I'm sorry." Tracy drew in a deep breath. "I shouldn't have called you--"

"Another dream?"

"Yeah." Tracy closed her eyes. She could hear Annabeth on the other end struggling to control the sixty-three years of New Zealand toughness that always seemed to be pushing at the seams of her compact frame. She could almost feel her sponsor trying to retain her serenity, to be supportive when her natural tendency was to be a straight-forward kick in the pants. "I'm sorry," Tracy whispered into the receiver. She didn't want to call her, not at this time, never actually. Even after all these years, all this therapy, and six years of sobriety, Tracy hated asking for help. She never quite got over the feeling that it was a weakness, a character flaw for lesser people.

"Well, I'm up now, pet. Stop kicking yourself for calling me, and tell me about the nightmare."

"I'm better now. I just needed to hear your voice." Tracy was already beginning to feel the embarrassment that went along with these late night calls, the shame of rushing to her friend's number, hoping for some form of telephonic absolution to get her through another night.

"Cut the crap, Ms. Walker, and tell me about the dream."

She should have known better. Annabeth wasn't going to back down, no more than Tracy backed down when Annabeth's own sobriety was faltering. Tracy breathed in a long, loud sigh to let her know she was only doing this to placate the older woman. "I was standing at the window of my apartment." She left out the part about it being her apartment from twenty years ago. "I was looking out over the city." She left out the part about the city _not_ being Seattle. "And it was on fire. I was oddly calm, like a city in flames was the most natural thing in the world." She left out the part about her father, on the floor, begging for his medication. She left out the part about not being able to help him as she waxed eloquent on the flames, the color of the night sky, the heat as the fire engulfed her, the way her skin felt as it burned hot and fast.

She never was good at the whole truth thing. It made for a lousy AA experience, but Tracy was okay with that. Her sobriety was earned through force of will, not uttering the Serenity Prayer and playing around with Steps. She went to the meetings to network, and to see Annabeth. At least, that's what she told herself.

"And that's everything?" Annabeth's voice revealed quite clearly that she knew Tracy was holding back pertinent details, the same way she knew Tracy did not truly reveal herself at meetings. There was a subtle, unspoken agreement between them to let Tracy have her wall and her half-truths, as long as they both were aware of their existence and as long as there was a hope that, someday, Tracy would be brave enough to tell the whole story. "That's all there is?"

"Pretty much," Tracy lied.

"Well, fire in a dream can be a symbol of transformation, or psychic clarification."

"I don't feel transformed or clarified," Tracy grumbled. Her pillow was hot, and she turned it over to try to find the cool side. "I feel wide awake and cranky and annoyed."

"Well, that makes two of us, dear. Have you just considered that maybe you're having these dreams because of the stress from the IPO? I mean, you've been working obscene hours with almost no downtime in order to get this thing off the ground."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Of course you are. Just because your company is doing well doesn't mean you aren't worried. Going public is a huge step. Naturally, it would make sense--"

"It's not about the damn company." Tracy groaned immediately after the words came out of her mouth. "I'm okay, Annabeth, I really am. Chelsea has been doing most of the work anyway. All I do is herd investors into prospectus meetings and look pretty for the board."

She heard a low harrumph on the other end of the line. "Well, I very much doubt that's all you do, Tracy Walker. But you're the business woman, not me."

"I'm sorry," she said for the fourth time that night. Part of her wanted to tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. But she couldn't, so she just let Annabeth think what she needed to think. "I have an investors' meeting at ten-thirty," she lied. "It's making me crazy."

"Tracy, listen to me. You've worked over twenty years building this company up from nothing. You've endured hardship, setbacks, Republican governments…and all through it, you've never given up your dream. In just a few weeks, Freedom Energies is going to go public. You're about to have everything you've ever wanted." There was a short pause. "It's bound to be frightening, standing on the verge of your own dreams coming true."

"I don't believe in dreams come true," Tracy whispered into the phone.

"I know," Annabeth said. "Maybe your dreams are trying to tell you that you should start believing."

"I don't want the dreams I have to come true," she said in a mocking tone.

"Then aren't we lucky they won't?" There was a slightly derisive snort from the other end of the line. "Listen, love, maybe if you start believing in your dreams again, your dreams will start believing in you."

"Oh, did you really just spout that at me?" She laughed gently. It was always a sign that Annabeth was backing off when she started quoting New Age platitudes. "What's next? Are we going to focus on my chi? Align my charkas?"

"Child, your charkas would need a crowbar and twenty shamans to align. What we _are_ going to focus on is your fear, and your belief that you don't deserve this success."

"Ouch," she remarked. Damn that Annabeth! She was _so_ close to escaping without being nailed.

"Truth hurts, pumpkin," Annabeth said in that knowing tone she got when she knew she'd scored a direct hit. "Now, here's a plan, Trace. You figure out why you don't think you deserve success, and maybe the nightmares will stop."

Tracy sighed, shutting her eyes. "Thank you, Dr. Phil," she murmured into the phone as she stifled a yawn. "I'll read your book and get back to you in the morning."

"I suppose it would be cruel to tell you to get some sleep?" Annabeth's voice was kind, though, and Tracy had to smile. There was a reason this woman had one of the only two numbers on her speed dial.

"Brutal and vicious," she agreed. "You coming to the party tomorrow night?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I have a very posh fluttery number to drape over my cracked old bones."

"Good." Tracy stretched, pushing down with her feet until they actually stuck out from under the other end of her covers. "Thank you for answering the phone, Annabeth."

"I always answer the phone. Do you still want to take a drink?"

Tracy shook her head. "No, not now. I'm going to be okay, I think," she said.

"You're going to be okay, I know," Annabeth corrected. "I love you, child. Will you be okay to sleep?"

"Yeah. I ought to get some rest, if I'm going to present my best face for my little group of potential stockholders."

"Dream well, my lovely."

And with that, the call was disconnected, and Tracy Walker was once again alone with her thoughts, and the uncanny feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong.

_Coming in Chapter Two: No One is an Island_


	2. No One Is An Island

_**Chapter Two: No One is an Island**_

He had to admit, as he walked through the gleaming chrome doors, that the new offices of Freedom Energies were impressive. Tracy Walker had put almost obsessive thought into the redesign of the building, from ergonomics to aesthetics to the etched roses that adorned the frosted acrylic windows behind the receptionist's desk. Simon smiled to the young woman behind the shining black reception desk, mostly because he couldn't remember her name. She was just another in a long string of receptionists who tried to fill Gertie's shoes—the fourth since the venerable old dame had retired amidst much fanfare a year earlier. The young blonde was cool and professional, just like the new offices, and Simon found himself longing for the old days when they were less streamlined and more fun.

"Good morning, Dr. Fullerton," the receptionist said with a practiced smile. "Do you need help with those?" She nodded to the tray of coffee cups and the bag of Danishes he'd balanced on top. "Ms. Walker gave me some files for you to review before the meeting, but I think you've got your hands full."

"Just have them sent to Tracy's office. How is the boss lady this morning?" he asked, shaking off her offer to help with the coffees.

The receptionist—Becca, that was her name!—Becca grinned at him. "Type A, all the way. She was here before I arrived, and even the janitors aren't here before I arrive."

Simon shook his head. "Do me a favor, Becca," he said, relieved when she nodded in recognition. "If we're not out of here at 11:00, pull the fire alarm. Call 911, do something. Because as God is my witness, that woman _is_ having lunch today. Out of the office," he added.

"Do you want me to make a reservation for you somewhere? She really likes Farinelli's…"

"Nah, too many temptations there. She'd be doing business before they even brought the breadsticks. No, Becca, I'm just going to have to rough it with her—take her down to Pike Street and force her to relax."

"Good luck," Becca said as he winked and headed for the gleaming chrome elevators. "I'll have those files sent up to you asap."

He balanced the coffees against the wall of the elevator as he leaned forward to press number 16. The doors closed on the daylight, and Simon held his breath. He hated enclosed places, and it took everything he had to stay standing every time he went to Tracy's office. He had to. She'd consulted him on the choice of buildings for the renovation, just like she'd done for everything else since they'd met back in the 80s. He knew if he'd told her about his thing with elevators, she'd have taken it into consideration. But that would have meant admitting to her that he was phobic, and you never admitted weakness to Tracy Walker. Not that she would have said anything or done anything to make him feel less of a man. But she tended to inspire people to her own psychotic level of perfectionism, and Simon couldn't bear to let her down.

The elevator opened with a soothing chime, Eastern and melodic. It set the tone for the corporate offices of one of the most innovative alternative fuel developers in the Western hemisphere. Chrome and acrylic and curved modular cubicles gave the place an almost ethereal feel, made warm and comforting by the spectacular view of Puget Sound through the bank of windows that lined the outer walls of the building. There were more roses, gently curved rosebuds etched strategically into the acrylic partitions, shadowed into the cream colored walls, adorning the desks of most of the employees who buzzed about in a perfect symmetry of professionalism and creativity.

Freedom Energies was The House That Tracy Built, and Simon had to admit he was proud of her. Nobody worked harder or longer than she did, nobody poured more of their own spirit into the company than the woman who had rescued it from near bankruptcy over two decades ago. She was a powerhouse of energy, ambition, innovation, and determination, and nobody who worked for her could say a single bad thing about her professionally, including him.

Simon hurried towards the corner office, stopping to put a mocha down in front of Tracy's admin, Chelsea Hartford. The forty-something year old woman looked like his fourth grade math teacher, without the sex appeal, but she was probably the only person on Earth he trusted to take care of Tracy in his absence. She looked up from her computer monitor, dark-rimmed glasses only serving to emphasize her too-narrow features and pale skin. "You're late," she said without preamble, taking a long sip of the coffee after blowing on it first.

"Had to stop by the University," he said, reaching in to the bag to give her a cheese Danish. "I still have a day job, you know."

"Well, I hope your day job provides mental health benefits, because it's your turn now. She's been driving me crazy all morning."

"Sorry," he said, and steadied himself to walk through the door. Greeting Tracy in her own domain could be intimidating, even after all these years. There was something that took over her when she worked, something trancelike and primal, a fierceness that he never understood although he considered her his closest friend in the world. It was like she was always proving something, every minute she was at work, and it was never enough. It was worse now that she was sober, although he'd never admit it to her. It was as if all those three-martini lunches had provided her a balance, and now there was nothing to divert her from her own ambitions.

He walked into her office unannounced, as he had done since that very first meeting back in '82 when she'd called him in from Seattle University to help with an environmental issue they were having in one of their plants. She'd blown him away from the very start. No dilly-dallying with euphemisms; she insisted he talk to her in the terminology of the chemistry they'd be dealing with. When she didn't understand something, she methodically asked questions, opening her mind and wading through the often dry explanations until, after a while, she knew almost as much about the chemical side of the business as he did. That didn't stop her from putting him on the payroll as a consultant and working him almost as much as the University did. He was a professor emeritus now and only taught when he wanted to. Freedom Energies, however, did not allow him as much leeway.

"You're late," she said, without even looking up from her computer. "We have a one o'clock with the EPA, and you need to get those HazMat forms in order."

"Good morning, Tracy," he said, crossing the considerable distance from the door to her desk. Tracy's office was like the rest of the building—bright and clean, with enormous windows overlooking the waters. Tracy herself was the picture of corporate cool. Her hair was honey brown this month—he never got over how often she changed it—and cut short around her shoulders. She was tailored and professional in a sleek white pantsuit, high buttoned and flattering in its simplicity. She wore wire-rimmed glasses, having given up contacts long ago during the worst of the drinking years. The glasses rested lightly on the edge of her nose as she continued to read. "I brought coffee and Danish."

"Gimme." She reached out a hand, her fingers already curved into the shape of the cup he placed there.

"Careful. It's hot." He pulled out a pastry and placed it on the desk in front of her.

She ignored him, putting the coffee to her lips and wincing as it burned her. "Ow!" She finally dragged her eyes from the computer to glare at him. "That's hot!"

Simon laughed, pulling her glasses off her face and brushing his fingertips against her graceful cheekbone. "_Good morning, Tracy_," he repeated gently, catching her gaze finally and holding it for a long moment. "Good morning."

She sighed, a frustrated smile triumphing in the face of her rampant workaholism. She snatched the glasses back from him and put them back on. "Good morning, Simon," she said reluctantly. "Thank you for the breakfast," she added. It was a small thing, but for Tracy, it was the small things that counted. "You cut your hair," she added without inflection. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Excuse me?" He took the Danish from off her desk, opening the plastic and nibbling a corner before handing it to her. "Eat something. And why shouldn't I have cut my hair?"

"We have too much going on for you to risk a bad haircut."

"I never have a bad haircut. I've had the same hair cut for the last thirty years." Simon brushed his hands through the neatly-trimmed layers of silver hair. It wasn't fancy, but it served him well. "You're losing it, Ms. Walker," he observed as he walked around her desk to sit in the slender metallic chair Chelsea used when she took dictation. "It's one thing to obsess about tax structures and marketing strategies. But when you start worrying about how a chemistry teacher wears his hair…"

"You are the face of Freedom's science team," she purred, blowing on her coffee before taking another sip. "You can't look scruffy when you're representing one of the fastest-growing companies in the country." With her free hand, she leaned forward and gently mussed his hair. Simon fought it, but couldn't quite ignore the shot of adrenaline her touch caused. It was stupid, of course, because she'd set the rules straight with him years earlier. No romance, no sex, no intimacy closer than friendship could ever exist between them—for the sake of the company, of course. Once, fresh out of a bad marriage and more insane than in love with her, he'd threatened to resign on the spot if that meant he could have her.

It had backfired, of course, even though he'd only been partly serious. Tracy had a way of slamming down walls between herself and other people when things got too personal, and that hormonal little stunt had led to almost six months of cool distance between them before she relaxed and began to feel comfortable with him again. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but Simon had learned it. He knew he'd always be a little bit in love with Tracy Walker, but that was as far as it would ever go.

She didn't want anyone in her life that way. She was her own woman, and beware any man who tried to breach that barrier she held so tightly around herself.

"The face of Freedom's science team," he repeated with a scowl. "I'm not the face of anything, and you are certainly no one to talk. Are you planning on gracing the paparazzi at Saturday's event?" He chuckled as she scrunched her nose defiantly and took a huge bite of the pastry. "I thought not. I think a woman who hasn't let a single picture of herself be published in the last twenty-five years has no room at all to talk about the image I present for the company." He took the pastry from her hands and ate the last bite. "All I care about is how you like it," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"You're absolutely gorgeous," she said perfunctorily, although there was a strong streak of humor in her lack of inflection. She leaned forward on the desk, affecting a look of dewy-eyed admiration. "You're like Frankie and Annette, all rolled up into one dreamy package."

Simon laughed out loud, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger. "Did you sleep last night?" he asked bluntly. She didn't have to say a word; he knew the answer from the way she tried not to show any response at all. "More nightmares?"

"I regret ever telling you about them," she said plainly and turned back to her computer. As she began to type hastily, she added, "It's just stress. Nothing to be worried about."

But Simon knew she was worried. Over twenty years had taught him that survival in TracyLand meant being able to define her emotions, even when she was hiding them. _Especially_ when she was hiding them. "Have you seen your shrink?"

"My shrink told me to tell you to leave me alone and forget I ever told you about the nightmares," she said in a bored tone as she reached for the mouse.

"No, she didn't, and we can call her to confirm that if you want."

Tracy sighed, stretching her neck slightly as she reached up to remove her glasses. She lay them down on the desk and rubbed her eyes furiously. For the first time since he arrived, Simon was able to see clearly the dark circles that her expertly-applied makeup couldn't fully conceal.

"It's about more than the IPO, isn't it?" he murmured, reaching out to take her hand.

She looked at him with that look she got when he was pushing too hard, when he was getting too close to breaching that seemingly-impenetrable barricade between them. It was equal parts ice and lava, and its sheer incomprehensible force did the trick. As it always did. Tracy didn't want Simon to pry, so Simon backed off. Like he always did.

And Tracy held it in, like she always did.

Simon started to say something, but the door opened to admit Chelsea, who was bringing in the files that had just arrived from reception. When she left without a word, the moment had passed and Tracy was herself again—oblivious to everything but her work. Simon watched her for a moment, fighting the feeling that she was holding something too big, too overwhelming for any one person to carry. But there was nothing he could do about it, no question that would not be met with icy silence, no concern that would not be tenderly ridiculed, and no fear that would not remain unresolved as he waited for the inevitable explosion to come. It was an explosion he'd been waiting for for over twenty years.

And he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it, because it was only a matter of time before her own silence caught up to Tracy Walker. So Dr. Simon Fullerton did the only thing he could do. He went back to work.

_Coming in Chapter Three: The Airwaves Crackle with Unspoken Accusations_


	3. The Airwaves Crackle

**_Chapter Three: The Airwaves Crackle with Unspoken Accusations_**

February 4, 2004

Tracy pushed forward on the treadmill, ignoring the not-so-silent pleadings of her muscles to just give it a rest. She hated exercise for its own sake, preferring to keep trim through sports and hard work. But these late night bouts with nightmares and insomnia were getting to her. She'd learned through hard experience that she was most vulnerable after midnight, when she was alone, when she was tired, when she was upset. The temptation to drink was too much, and she'd had to find creative ways around it.

Thus, the treadmill. It was parked inconspicuously in the far corner of her home office, facing the picture window. She watched the city lights below, twinkling in the rain, refracting and elongating through the streams of water that traced the windows into glorious fireworks of red, yellow and white. She had her computer set up to the stereo speakers; she'd tuned in to the online stream for WINS, a New York City news station, and was listening while she exercised. They were opening three plants on the east coast, and it was smart to be caught up on the area long before they went live.

Tracy leaned forward to take her micro-recorder off the stand. She pushed the record button and spoke into the microphone. "Chelsea, I want you to clear my schedule for the 15th. I'm going to go with Stan's suggestion and fly out to Savannah to review the plant there. I still want Mike and Eleanor on the primary team, but we need some muscle along to remind them that deadlines are deadlines. Oh, and see if you can book me into the Kessler. I know it's short notice, but I really can't work in a Motel 6 with a padlock on the bathroom door." She let go of the button, thought about it for a second, then added, "That was a joke, Chelsea. You're supposed to laugh when I tell a joke."

She put down the recorder and redoubled her efforts. If she could just wear herself out, exhaust her body to the point that her mind followed, maybe she could get an hour or so of sleep before her alarm went off. The radio was a non-intrusive chatter in the background, and she almost missed the story when it started.

_"In regional news, a long-lost treasure is being auctioned off in the town of Port Charles, New York._"

Her feet stopped cold, and Tracy felt the sweat chill on her skin. She stood motionless, tense and alert to any noise, any movement in the room. It hit her, hard, that this was the real reason she'd listened, this was always the reason she listened. It was so subtle, so subliminal a motivation that it had never occurred to her.

News from home.

"_The auction, co-sponsored by local businesspersons Edward Quartermaine and Helena Cassadine, will be held at the historic Port Charles Hotel tonight."_

The announcer spoke briefly about the history of the treasure, then went on to a different news item. Finally, Tracy was able to breathe again. "Damn," she muttered to herself as her feet began to move as well. "I thought that was just a family myth." And then she realized, like a punch to the gut, what she was doing.

Anger fueled her actions as she grabbed the remote and turned off the stereo, losing the achingly familiar sounds of New York and the past in a single remote signal sent invisibly through the air. She turned the treadmill from manual to automated, the highest setting she could stand, and began pushing herself as hard as she could. Pain seared through her body, aching muscles unused to such hard exercise resisted, pulled, tightened against her efforts until she had to stop, until she had to limp off the machine to the nearest chair, until her body couldn't take it any more.

She closed her eyes, breathing hard, hoping it was enough. Knowing nothing was enough to blind her to the dream that was still flickering across her mind's eye like a 1920s horror film, pale and sepia-toned and gruesome in its naïve goriness….

_She was standing before the Board. It was her day of days, everything Tracy had dreamed of since she was a little girl. All around her were admiring faces, applauding men of standing and power, congratulating her on her success, urging her to join them, for drinks, for advice, for a moment of her time…._

_Daddy was there. Daddy was always there, beaming with pride. Applauding with the rest of them._

_"Give us a few words, Tracy," one of the men said, and he led her to a podium._

_She stood there at the microphone, humbled, proud, grateful._

_Daddy was behind her, his arms around her shoulder. "Be careful what you reveal, daughter." His whisper in her ear felt like a kiss as he slid the knife across her throat to ensure that she never succumbed to the weakness, to this pathetic need for self-revelation. _

_That she never told the truth for as long as she lived._

"God, I need a drink," she whispered to the empty condominium as she wrapped her arms around her throbbing legs and rested her head on her knees. She was so tired—it felt like years since she'd slept through the night. At this moment, Tracy thought she'd sell everything, everything she owned in the entire world, just to sleep without dreams for a single night.

A siren blared on the street below, and Tracy followed the sound with her eyes. The rising sun was playing purple and orange light against the horizon.

She wasn't going to sleep tonight.

_Coming in Chapter Four: The Rules are Reiterated._


	4. The Rules are Reiterated

_**Chapter Four: The Rules are Reiterated**_

February 4, 2004

He had to admit, she did glamorous right. Simon stood in the doorway to the full sized bathroom adjoining Tracy's office. She was standing in front of the lighted mirror, brushing her hair into a soft up-do, held in place with diamond-studded pins and sheer force of genetic good luck. She puckered her lips and took out a lipstick to fix the color.

Simon couldn't remember how many times he'd watched her in this little routine. She tended to get nervous before social affairs, rocks in the stomach and that sort of thing, and appreciated the calming effect his presence had on her. Just another Tracy inconsistency that kept him glued to her side throughout the years. In business situations, she was a force of nature. But whenever things got chatty, or small talk ensued, questions about the kids and pictures of the summer home in Monterey, Tracy seemed to get jittery.

He knew it had been the main force behind her drinking, all those years ago. Tracy drank to calm her nerves, to give her courage to face the smiles and the niceties she was forced to endure during these social occasions.

Simon knew this because Tracy had told him one night in her apartment two years ago, when she'd been up all night crying, hurting, wanting a drink so badly it made her crazy. Because Annabeth was out of town. Because she couldn't face it alone, and he was all she had. She'd told him how nervous she got, how much she hated it, the questions and the curiosity. She'd let him hold her because there had really been nothing she could do at the time to stop him.

It of course had triggered another long spout of distance when, after the crisis was over, she'd realized how much she revealed. Now, even now, she held herself very tightly in social situations, not wanting him to see her cringe, not wanting him to gauge her level of discomfort.

He was doing it now, and she knew it. She glanced at him in the looking glass, her eyes narrowed slightly. "Make yourself useful, Professor," she murmured, holding out a diamond necklace in her fingertips. "Help me with this."

He crossed the short distance to stand behind her. As he worked the delicate clasp, he couldn't help watching their reflections in the mirror. He was taller than Tracy, just a few inches, but enough to make her seem diminutive as she leaned back to give him better access. Other than the height difference, they looked good together. Both had good features, high cheekbones, strong jaw lines, healthy complexions. Her eyes were almost the same shade as his, and when she smiled, she had dimples in almost the same spots as he did.

But that's where the similarities ended. Where Tracy seemed to exude class and breeding, this eloquent and innate sense of privilege that shone through her like a light, he looked like exactly what he was—a Midwestern transplant with a head for science who'd lucked into a consulting job that made him incredibly wealthy. He was no more comfortable in a tux than she was in group therapy. Somehow, though, their differences balanced and coalesced, turning them into a formidable team—her Katharine Hepburn to his Jimmy Stewart, although she'd mock him for the comparison if he ever told her.

Simon finished hooking the necklace and gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him. She frowned, but didn't struggle as he held her. In fact, she closed her eyes and actually seemed to relax in his arms. "So, Boss Lady," he murmured into her hair. "Am I here as Professor Answer Man, or have you decided to forego your superficial boy toys and take me as your escort tonight?"

"You never seemed to mind my superficial boy toys before," she sighed, a small smile flickering across her perfectly painted lips. "Actually, I can't remember, are you between wives at the moment? What was the last one? Number Three? Or was that Five?"

Simon had to laugh, and he squeezed her gently. "I'm between matrimonial states at the moment, if you must know. And while that was a fine attempt at avoiding my question," he grazed his lips against her ears. "It didn't work."

It was the touch against her ears that pushed just a little too far, and Tracy stiffened against him. Her voice, still laced with humor, took on a harder, cooler tone. "Do we need to reiterate the rules, Professor Fullerton?"

Simon groaned, releasing her as he headed toward the door. "Not the damned rules…."

"If you'd learn them, really learn them," she lectured, following him out into the office and turning off the bathroom lights behind her. "I wouldn't have to keep nagging you." She put her hand on his shoulder as she quickly paced him, moving ahead to grab her wrap off the back of her chair. "Rule Number One—"

"Business first. Business always comes first," he quoted in a monotone.

"And why does business come first, Professor?" She handed him her wrap. It was a sparkly black thing that complimented her strapless scarlet dress, and he placed it over her bare shoulders as she continued to talk. "Business comes first…" she prompted.

"Because business is why we're here," he finished for her, reaching behind her to grab the tiny black clutch from her desk and hand it to her.

"Exactly. We are not here for fun, or for games, or for moonlit strolls through the garden of life…."

"So I take it I'm _not_ your date tonight," he quipped as he followed her to the door.

She paused, turning to face him with that maddening smile of hers. "Of course, you're my date," she said coolly. "But that doesn't mean you're getting lucky."

And he had to laugh as he shook his head and followed her out towards the elevator. "Of course not," he said. He should have known better, he thought as he steeled himself against the closing doors.

The Freedom Energies reception hall occupied the entire top floor of the high rise that housed its corporate offices. The pre-launch dinner was like so many others, designed to lure in prospective buyers with glitz and glamour and the promise of cold, hard profit in every elegant detail.

Simon had to admit even he was impressed with this place in full function mode. Carrie Albertson crossed to meet them as they stepped out of the elevator. The event planner wore colorful African robes, her curly black hair wrapped in a golden turban, her face happy and animated as she led them around the event space. "We got the pink rosebuds from a supplier in Spokane. I know it's a distance, but we think the quality speaks for itself." She pointed to the tables, which glistened in white linen splendor. Each place setting shimmered with crystal and silverware, sparkling china plates and ornately-folded rose-colored napkins that resembled roses in the center of each plate. "We'll be starting the appetizers at seven-ish, and seating for the meal will be at eight-fifteen. Your podium is there," she turned Tracy to face a large acrylic podium at the front of the room. It was clearly designed to capture not only the attention of all party-goers, but to give an almost other worldly quality to the speaker. "What we're going for here is a mixture of the old and the new, the traditional and the innovative."

"It's like having dinner in a Stanley Kubrick film," a voice said from the elevator behind them.

"Annabeth," Tracy cried, turning to wrap her friend in a quick embrace. "You made it."

"I told you I'd make it," Annabeth said curtly as she handed her coat to Simon. She reached just to his chest, silver-black spiky hair barely clearing the top of his shoulders when she stood perfectly straight. She looked for all the world like something from a New Age production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, thin and ageless and fey, with gauzy flowing outfits the color of a summer sky. Of course, that's where the ethereal quality ended. Under that sprite-like exterior was a spirit of pure granite, toughened by a lifetime of hard knocks and obstacles.

Simon watched her and Tracy together as he flagged down a server and had him bring Annabeth's coat to the check station. The two women couldn't have been further apart visually if they tried, but there was an almost electric connection that happened when they were in the same room together. Tracy always seemed to soften in Annabeth's presence, coming as close to personable as he ever saw her get when the older woman was there. Annabeth's voice, accented in a now-faint New Zealand drawl, seemed to warm a part of Tracy that nobody else, not even Simon, could touch.

It killed him to resent her, knowing how much the older woman meant to Tracy, but there it was.

"So, we're all high-tech, are we?"

"It's the company of the future," Tracy laughed as she put an arm around Annabeth's shoulders. "Freedom, future, alternatives…you _did_ actually read the information I gave you, didn't you?"

"If you say it's okay, I'll invest my money," Annabeth said. "Is that a movie screen behind the podium?"

"What a terrible attitude to have! I could rob you blind."

"Come on, Tracy, everybody knows you're honest as the day is long," Simon said. He'd flagged down another server and asked her for a bottled water for Ms. Walker and himself. "You want something, Beth?"

"I _want_ a gin and tonic to get me through this dog and pony show," she murmured. "But I'll _take_ a bottled water. How are you doing, pet?" This was addressed to Tracy.

"Oh, I'm sure the presentation will go alright. We still have a few weeks to go until the IPO, so we're not expecting miracles—"

"I'm not talking about the presentation," Annabeth said, pulling Tracy closer to her as she lowered her voice. "How are _you_ doing, pet…?"

Simon saw the look flicker across his friend's features, fear, frustration, embarrassment. It was the usual, whenever somebody asked her to talk about herself. And it was gone in a flash, caught no doubt only by himself and Annabeth. "Right as rain, although I think Carrie needs me for a sound check before the guests arrive."

Carrie insinuated herself into the group, starting on a non-stop narrative as she whisked Tracy off to the podium…and safety.

Annabeth stared at the two of them for a long time, taking the bottled water the server had just returned with before giving Simon a long, knowing look. "Train wreck, isn't she?" she muttered, nodding towards Tracy.

Simon nodded his head as he opened the bottle and took a sip. "Yup."

_Coming in Chapter Five: And the Floor Opens and Swallows Her Whole_


	5. And the Floor Opens

**_Chapter Five: And the Floor Opens and Swallows Her Whole_ **

"With that, I'd like to wrap up my presentation with these words." Tracy looked out over the roomful of people, smiling casually as she leaned slightly against the podium. "My employees can probably recite this speech by heart, but I think it's important to reiterate it as often as possible." She took a deep breath, standing as tall as she could. "When I bought this company 20 years ago, I decided to call it Freedom Energies. I chose that name for a very specific reason." She paused for dramatic effect, looking across the room so that no matter where a person was sitting, they got the impression she was talking to them.

"When we talk about freedom here, we're not just talking about freedom from dependence on foreign fuel, or from non-renewable energy sources. The freedom we're talking about in this company is a more subtle freedom, a more important freedom. What _we're_ going for is freedom from the past, freedom from the iron-clad grip of conventionality." Tracy smiled, her hands flat on the podium, her stance tall and powerful. "Freedom Enterprises represents a new kind of business model. We're not your father's company, and we don't do his kind of business. We are not just a company for the 21st Century—we're a company for all centuries. What we stress is adaptability, flexibility, innovation, and the power of creativity." She grinned, a little evil grin that never failed to deliver. "Oh, and profit. We _really_ stress that."

There was a round of laughter, some polite, some authentic. It was the sign she was waiting for, and Tracy waited for it to subside before changing modes. "And now that the Beauty portion of the evening is over…" More laughter. "I'd like to turn the podium over to the Brains behind the company. Let me introduce our Chief Science Officer and All-Around Answer Man, Dr. Simon Fullerton. Dr. Fullerton is a Professor Emeritus in Chemistry at Seattle University and knows everything about everything. I'd also like to introduce our Chief Financial Officer, Kathryn Marcosi, who can answer all those little dollars and cents questions I know you have. So, without further ado, I'd like to invite Dr. Fullerton and Ms. Marcosi to the podium."

She paused for the applause, smiling graciously before vacating the podium. She noticed a single flash just before she left, and the smile vanished once her back was turned. Chelsea was waiting for her just outside the door—she knew better than anyone that Tracy needed privacy after a speech, and she was waiting with a bottled water and her glasses.

"Who was the flash," she asked, taking the water and downing a fast gulp.

"I think it was Jason, from AP."

"Check his camera. If there's one picture of me, he's banned. He knows the rules."

She didn't have to say much more, because Jason met them at the elevator. He still had his camera in his hand. "Gimme one for the _Wall Street Journal_?" he asked with laughter in his voice. He should really know better.

"You know the rules, Mister," she said with equal joviality. "Don't let there be a picture of my ugly face on that disk, Jason, because I'd hate to have you kicked out on your ass."

"You're _killing_ me, Tracy," he called through the closing doors, handing the camera to Chelsea as he did.

She rode in silence till her elevator reached the proper floor. It was dark, with just the light of the city pouring in the windows. Tracy loved her office like this, loved the silence and the shimmer of light reflecting from the beautiful surfaces all around her. She didn't think as she went into her office and turned on the computer. She clicked on the link to the radio, and started listening to the East Coast news.

When Annabeth walked in, just moments later, she found Tracy collapsed on the floor, with news of a fire in some New York hotel blaring through the speakers of her computer.

_Chapter Six: A Journey is Planned_


	6. A Journey is Planned

**_Chapter Six: A Journey is Planned_**

Simon exited the elevator as a full sprint, leaving Chelsea to catch up. He'd managed to gracefully exit the podium, keeping a smile on his face the entire time as he walked with Tracy's assistant to the elevator. She didn't give him the details until the doors were safely closed, so as not to spook the investors.

She said it was exhaustion, probably, and on one level Simon figured she was right. Tracy had been pushing herself so hard it was only a matter of time till her body pushed back. But it wasn't the fear that she might have over-extended herself that had him running through the Freedom offices after dark.

Annabeth had gotten her to the couch by the time he arrived and was seated next to Tracy, holding the younger woman against her and rocking her gently. Annabeth looked up when he entered, and nodded gratefully for him to join them.

"What happened?"

"She took a little tumble, that's all," Annabeth said gently. "Nothing to worry about." It was very clear from the expression on her face, which she carefully concealed from Tracy, that she was incredibly worried. Tracy, for her part, was nestled into Annabeth like a child, knees pulled up, arms around the older woman, her head buried in her shoulders. Simon looked around the office, searching for clues as to what has caused Tracy's attack. Her desk was clean; she hadn't even begun to work on anything. The news was playing on the stereo, as always, reporting on the stock values for the close of today's business.

Nothing out of the ordinary, except that Annabeth had found Tracy on the floor of her office in practically a fetal position.

"Hey, kiddo," he said softly, brushing Tracy's hair from her forehead. "How's tricks?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, not moving even slightly out of Annabeth's firm grip. "I have no idea…" She sighed, shivering, and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry…"

Chelsea appeared at the door of the office. "I told Carrie that she got an international call she couldn't miss, and that she'd be late for the wrap-up." The admin cast an appraising glance at her boss, a flash of worry darkening her thin features. "Should I call somebody?"

"No!" Tracy said, shaking her head fiercely. "I'm fine, I'm just…tired…"

"Yeah," Chelsea noted, but didn't have time to add anything.

The radio blared with music, special report, and Tracy stiffened, sitting up to listen. Simon caught Annabeth's eyes, and they paid equal attention to the news report and Tracy's reaction.

_"We're live from the scene of the Port Charles Hotel fire. Our New York Regional Correspondent Nina Rodriguez is there with the latest updates. Nina?"_

_"Thank you. As we mentioned earlier, a series of small explosions rocked the historic Port Charles Hotel this evening, setting off a four-alarm fire and trapping many of the town's most prominent citizens at a gala reception on the upper floors. High winds are hampering rescue attempts, but so far, we have no reports of fatalities."_

Simon watched Tracy's face—she looked like she was staring at a ghost, like she was seeing the flames right in front of her. "What's going on, honey," he whispered. "Do you know this place?"

_"We're getting some updated information, Tim. I just spoke to a representative of the Port Charles Police Department, who informed me that a warrant has been issued for the arrest of the hotel's owner, Edward Quartermaine, on charges of fire code violations and criminal neglect."_

"Daddy!" It was the smallest of whispers, and anybody might have missed it. Anybody but Simon and Annabeth, who exchanged a quick, stunned glance, but said nothing. Tracy seemed even smaller than before, tiny in Annabeth's arms, although the older woman was shorter by at least two inches. Her breath was ragged, and she looked terrified.

The shoe's dropped, Simon thought solemnly as he pulled away, standing to cross the office to Chelsea, who was also listening intently to the news report. "I need you to do some quick research for me," he said in a low voice. "Use my University passwords—they should be on file. Go to LexisNexis and search everything you can find about Edward Quartermaine…" He paused, turning around to look at the two women on the couch. "And Tracy Quartermaine."

She nodded without another word, and was gone.

The special report had ended, and the radio was back to stock information and daily wrap-ups. Tracy was crying softly now, and Annabeth was holding her.

Simon sat at Tracy's desk, watching them helplessly. Now all he could do was wait.

It was several minutes—it seemed like hours—before Chelsea returned, motioning him out to the outer office, to where her computer was already up and running. She waited until the office door was shut behind them before talking in low voice. "Edward Quartermaine was easy enough," she started without preamble. "The guy's loaded—has his finger in everything, and he's been doing business in the New York area for longer than we've been alive." She let him sit at her desk, leaning over his shoulder to scroll through several open browser windows.

Simon did a quick scan—the guy's Hoover profile showed an impressive resume. The picture, on the other hand, sent a chill through him. The older man was smiling for the camera, but there was a steeliness to his eyes, a hardness about him that set his teeth on edge. He looked like the kind of man who could crush a competitor at ten-thirty and go out for lunch without a hint of indigestion to show for it.

Chelsea continued her non-stop monologue. "The guy's got investments everywhere, some of them really good, some of them more risky. If you ask me, he's overextended himself."

"What about Tracy Quartermaine?"

"That's what took me so long. There was nothing about her in Lexis, but that makes sense. They only go back so many years, and if Tracy's been here since the early 80s…"

"She'd have missed the Internet completely," Simon said glumly.

"Fortunately, I have a friend at the _New York Times_…" At Simon's surprised look, she added, "From a former life. Anyway, he owed me a favor, so I called him up and got him to search their archives. He sent me a few .pdfs from their morgue."

She opened another browser window, and there was Tracy—maybe 18 years old. The article was from the Society page, announcing her debut. Her hair was piled high atop her head, and she wore a simple white dress, gloves, and pearls. She was smiling widely, the picture of youth and privilege and hope. "The daughter of Edward and Lila Quartermaine…" he read aloud.

"Here's another one." Chelsea alt-tabbed through the screens until she came to another .pdf of a wedding announcement. It showed Tracy, not much older, in a wedding dress, preparing to be married to Lord Lawrence Ashton. The bride would wear organdy and carry white rose buds from her mother's garden….

Simon turned to Chelsea, puzzled. "I don't get it."

"There's a few more of these—she was in the papers pretty frequently, the society pages mainly, attending this function or that affair. She apparently was quite the social butterfly. There's another marriage in there, to some politician named Williams." Chelsea rolled her eyes. "He looked like slime to me, but that's not my business. Anyway, the significant thing here is that the pictures, the references—everything—stops like a train wreck in 1981."

"The year Tracy moved to Seattle."

"Think about it," Chelsea said. "These idiot reporters considered it newsworthy if she ate rumaki at a fundraiser for New England Clam Preservation, but the daughter of a wealthy industrialist moves west to start her own company---" She paused, her face incredulous. "And nothing?"

"Nothing," Simon said quietly, still staring at the picture of Tracy in her wedding gown. She looked so different from the woman he knew as Tracy Walker. She had the same good features, the same beauty…but there was something more there. A light, a buoyancy that his Tracy lacked. She seemed hopeful, positive, radiant. "Why did she leave?" he murmured.

"I did a quick check on her social." She flashed him a sharp look when he raised a questioning eyebrow. "Usually our background checks only go back seven years, but I went back further. There were a few minor incidents, a couple of DUIs, some speeding tickets, but nothing serious." Chelsea nodded pointedly. "She filed for legal name change in 1981."

"She won't let any pictures be published of her," he murmured.

"Oh, and there's one more thing. I took a look at Hoover's list of officers for ELQ—that's the family business—and check out this name." She opened up a profile, and a picture of a young man, handsome and healthy, with a flip of dark brown hair hanging recklessly over his forehead. "Edward "Ned" Ashton. Grandson of the CEO."

Simon stared at the picture, seeing the resemblance. "She has a son…."

"It's easy to find this stuff, once you know which haystack the needle's in."

"Simon, get in here!" Annabeth's voice was high and nervous, and he cast a concerned look at Chelsea.

"Keep digging. Try to find out why she left." He was in the office in no time, Annabeth holding Tracy fiercely. Ms. Quartermaine was hyperventilating, her breath heavy, gasping, choked.

"Quartermaine had a heart attack when they were arresting him, and Tracy freaked."

"He's faking! He's faking, he's faking," Tracy's voice was on the verge of hysterics; she kept shaking her head to the negative, rocking back and forth. "He's faking it."

"Tracy, honey," Simon said, taking a seat next to her on the couch. It was tight, but that might work to their advantage. Tracy was sandwiched between them, each holding her from their own angle, struggling to calm her with their physical presence.

"He wants me to think it's a real heart attack," she continued, mostly to herself, her voice high and almost child-like as a hint of laughter, eerie and unexpected, crept into her words. "He does, but I know better. He can't trick me. He can't trick me. He's faking it."

"Okay, um, Annabeth?" Simon looked over Tracy, and Annabeth shot him a confused look back. Then he turned back to Tracy, reaching out to cup her chin in his palm, forcing her to make eye contact, trying to get through the hysterics to the woman he knew and loved. "Tracy, honey, look at me. Look at me."

"Simon?" She hesitated, as if she'd had to travel a long way to get to her words. "Simon, he's faking it. He's doing it to get out of the charges. Daddy's smart. He won't go to jail for this. Daddy's smart."

"There were ambulances on the scene," Annabeth said softly, more to him than to Tracy. "He was taken to the local hospital."

"My family practically _owns_ that damned hospital!" Tracy's voice was harsh and shrill. "Of course they'd take him there. It's all part of his plan. Get one of the doctors to say he's sick, divert their attention, figure out a plan…."

"Chelsea!" Simon waited until Chelsea was at the door. "Get the main hospital in Port Charles, New York, on the phone. We need information on Edward Quartermaine's condition." She was gone in a flash. Tracy looked as if she hadn't even heard him. "Annabeth, do you have anything that can calm her down?"

"I don't need to calm down," Tracy argued. "There's nothing to calm down about. Daddy's got everything under control. Daddy's going to handle everything."

"I've got a couple of bags of chamomile tea in my purse," she said, ignoring the younger woman's tirade.

"I hate chamomile tea."

"Well, you're going to hate a nervous breakdown even more, if you don't do something to calm yourself," Annabeth snapped. Tracy shot her a peevish look, but didn't argue with her. "Now, we're going to find out about your father's condition, and we're going to make a plan."

"Ha!" Tracy had calmed some, wriggling back into Annabeth's arms for support, still child-like and wild-eyed as the news report continued to drone on in the background. "He fooled you. He fooled them all. He's brilliant."

"I'm sure he is, darling." She nodded to Simon, who'd gotten up to find her purse and the tea bags.

There was a coffee maker in Tracy's office with a hot water spigot, and he took her favorite mug—a Mariner's logo mug he'd bought her during an ill-fated but ultimately hilarious attempt years early to get her into Major League Baseball—and filled it to the brim. Dropping the bag in, he let it steep as he listened to the news reports. Apparently, since he'd been gone, there was one fatality—a local lawyer named Scott Baldwin. He wondered if Tracy new him, if they'd been friends.

As he waited for the tea to steep, it hit Simon that he knew absolutely nothing about this woman he thought he loved. That an entire lifetime, two marriages, a son, had occurred before he'd ever seen her face, and that he barely knew anything, barring a few names, dates, and pictures, about her past. What had driven her from her home? What drove her to protect her privacy so fiercely that she hadn't let allowed a single photograph to be published of her in all that time?

What did Edward Quartermaine have to do with it, and why did the mere mention of his name send this strong, intelligent woman into a fit of panic?

Chelsea was back at the door by the time he handed the mug to Annabeth, who was quietly insisting that Tracy drink it. She motioned to him to join her and spoke _sotto voce_ at the door. "They wouldn't give me anything at first. Apparently the place is a madhouse, and there are reporters calling non-stop. The person answering was an older lady, so I took a chance and dropped the name Tracy Quartermaine."

Simon raised an eyebrow, then asked, "And…"

"Dead. Silence. For almost thirty seconds. And then the woman transferred me to a Dr. Monica Quartermaine."

"Any luck there?" He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

"She seemed pretty stiff, but answered my questions. It seemed like she had more questions than I did, but didn't want to ask them. I could tell she was busy, so I didn't keep her on long." Chelsea hesitated. "She asked for Tracy's contact information, but I didn't give it to her. If Tracy wants to be invisible, it isn't my place to out her."

"Invisibility is what's gotten her into this state," Simon said darkly. "How's the old ogre, anyway?"

"He sure isn't faking it. Massive coronary. They're trying to get a surgeon in."

"The doctor's a Quartermaine. Could she be lying to protect the old man?"

"She wasn't lying. I could tell. It didn't sound rehearsed, and she had too many details. Besides, she sounded too exhausted to be reading from a script."

"Okay, thank, Chelsea. Good work."

The admin nodded towards Tracy, who looked nothing in the world like the CEO of a world-class company as she sipped her chamomile tea. "What are we going to do about her?"

Simon grimaced. There were times when he loved being the one who could answer all questions Tracy. He loved the intimacy and history they shared, loved the notoriety of his closeness to the famously elusive Ms. Walker. And then there were times like this. "Check the airlines. Book two flights on the next plane out to New York."

"She should be in a hospital," Chelsea raised an eyebrow. "Not on a cross-country flight."

"Then isn't it convenient that we're headed straight for a hospital. I'll make sure she's examined for exhaustion the minute we get there." Simon knew he was pushing it, knew he was severely testing the limits of both his friendship with Tracy and his position at Freedom. "Listen, the last thing Tracy is going to want is to check into a hospital just weeks before the IPO. This way, we can get her looked at, and we can get to the bottom of this Quartermaine thing before it blows up in our faces.

"Are you sure about that?" It translated roughly into, 'Are you sure you're willing to risk Tracy firing us both and never speaking to us again?'

"We can't have her like this." He looked over his shoulders. Tracy was in no condition to shoulder the burden of Freedom Energies at the moment, and they both knew how much of the IPO's success was dependent on the force of her reputation. "We'll tell people there was a family emergency back east, and that we took a few days off to take care of business."

"And what are you going to tell Tracy?"

"That it's time to clear this mess up once and for all." He shrugged, casting a helpless eye to Chelsea. "Whatever the hell 'this mess' is…."

_Coming in Chapter Seven: Homeward Bound_


	7. Homeward Bound

**_Chapter Seven: Homeward Bound_**

What she remembered most was Annabeth's voice in the airport. She didn't ask her to join them—Annabeth hadn't stepped foot on an airplane willingly since the crash in 1972 that killed her husband and daughter, and that almost killed her as well. She didn't even like airports, but she'd come alone with them, braving the sights and sounds to see them off at the terminal.

"Be brave," she'd whispered into Tracy's hair.

Be brave.

Tracy leaned back into her first class seat, wondering how messed up she must have been to allow Simon and Annabeth to talk her into this trip back to Port Charles. The entire incident in her office seemed like a dream, even though only a few hours had passed. The red eye was deserted, with just a few hardy business travelers in coach and one elderly couple on the other side of first class filling out the passenger list.

The safety drill was old hat to her, so she just zoned out while the flight attendant showed them the exits, how to buckle the seatbelts, and how to use their seat backs as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.

Simon was absolutely silent next to her.

How had this happened? How had her entire life blown up in the course of a few hours?

Tracy Quartermaine. She hadn't even spoken the name aloud in 20 years, yet it still felt right. She'd answered their questions, stilting, confused.

Yes, Edward was her father.

Yes, she had been estranged—banished, was the word she'd used.

"Banished, as in feudal Europe?"

It had sounded so bad when Simon asked the question. Like they were freaks. Like what family actually _banishes_ a son or daughter in this modern age? She'd watched their faces as she told them the modified version, edited for family viewing. She'd run afoul of her father, angered him in a way that couldn't be resolved, and had been cut off. Banished from his life and banished from his family.

How she'd drunk her way across Europe for six weeks, then spun a globe to find a place to create her new life.

How she'd given up on trying to reclaim her place in the family.

How she'd given up on Tracy Quartermaine, and poured all of her strength and energy into creating Tracy Walker and Freedom Energies.

Judging from Simon's stony silence next to her, he'd figured out she was still hiding something from him and he wasn't happy about it. He and Annabeth hadn't pushed for more information. They'd just let her tell her story while Chelsea rushed back to her place to pack a few things.

They were good friends.

Tracy Quartermaine didn't have friends, but Tracy Walker was lucky enough to have two of the best friends in the world.

She looked over at Simon. His eyes were closed as he listened to the last of the safety instructions. He was beautiful, she thought absently as she reached for his hand. His eyes opened, and he turned to face her. There was such concern in his expression, such a strong desire to protect her.

It was so evident in everything he did.

Simon loved her.

And this scared Tracy beyond belief. Tracy Quartermaine, Tracy Walker, it didn't matter.

Love wasn't something Tracy understood, nor was friendship. She understood loyalty, especially to family and company. But Simon…and Annabeth, were a mystery to her. Anyone else would have been furious, outraged at a 20 year lie. But they just held her, comforted her, supported her as they had done for so many years. It was almost as if they were relieved, as if they'd known all along she was lying to them, and were grateful to have at least part of the truth out in the open.

"Be brave," Annabeth had whispered in her hair, during that last lingering embrace before she boarded the plane.

Be brave, Tracy, she told herself as she squeezed Simon's hand wordlessly.

In a few hours, everything would be out in the open. Once they reached General Hospital, once Simon saw her family's reaction to her, she'd never be able to keep the truth from him. It would be the ultimate test of his loyalty to her.

And Tracy…

Well, Tracy just had to be brave and let what happened, happen.

_Coming in Chapter Eight: Enter Like a Queen, not a Prodigal Daughter_


	8. Enter like a Queen, not a Prodigal

**_Chapter Eight: Enter Like a Queen, not a Prodigal Daughter_**

Simon used the time in the rented Mercedes to learn the cast of characters from Tracy. Edward and Lila were the parents; apparently, Edward was Attila the Hun and Lila was the Fairy Godmother, at least by Tracy's recollections. There was one brother, namely Alan, who was a doctor. He'd been married (at least the last time Tracy checked) to another doctor named Monica, who by Tracy's estimation was a worthless, cheating slut. They had a son, A.J., whose paternity Tracy had dared to question (because Monica was cheating on Alan with someone named Rick) in order to secure a higher status in the family for her own son, Ned.

Ned's father was Larry, a fake British lord who was also a worthless, cheating slut. (Simon wondered if all Quartermaines had such bad taste in spouses.) Larry had married Tracy young, squandered her fortune, and left her with a young son to raise. (Which she didn't, by the way. "Daddy" – i.e., Edward - had insisted Ned stay in boarding school, and Tracy hadn't fought him.) Broke and dependent, Tracy caved under Edward's insistence that she marry (the only way he'd give her any of the family money), so she "nudged" (her word) her then boyfriend, Mitch Williams, into marrying her.

Of course, Mitch was also a worthless, cheating slut, and that marriage ended, as so many did in the Quartermaine family, in divorce.

That's where the story started getting fuzzy. Apparently, there was some incident involving A.J.'s paternity, Mitch's political career, and "Daddy" that got Tracy slammed out of the family in a big way. But Tracy didn't really go into details, and Simon didn't press.

He had a feeling that this was going to be huge, and he needed time to prepare for it.

They spent the last few miles of the drive into Port Charles in relative silence. They had listened to the news at first, but turned it off as the actual reports had faded into talk radio speculation. Tracy watched the lights on the highway, lost in her own thoughts, while Simon watched for road signs.

When they finally got to the hospital, it was like a war zone. Ambulances, news vans, police cars—all formed a seemingly impenetrable barrier between them and their destination. The sun was beginning to make an appearance in the east, but it was still dark enough that a young cop had to flash a light in the driver's side window before asking their business.

"My companion has a family member who was injured in the hotel fire," he said. Something, instinctively, warned him that this was not the time or place to drop the name "Quartermaine."

The cop pointed them to a special parking area for families of the victims. It was only a moment before they were parked and the motor turned off. Simon turned to Tracy, who sat motionless in the passenger seat next to him. She looked pale and terrified.

"You can do this," he whispered to her, reaching for her hand. It was shaking. "Look, whatever happened, happened a long time ago. Right now, you're just another daughter, visiting her father at the hospital."

"I don't know if I can…" Her voice was hoarse, almost a full half-octave below her normal tone. She was squeezing his hand hard now, and staring at the commotion around her. "It's like a dream."

"Pull yourself together, Ms. Walker," he said, purposefully using her new name. She needed to be Tracy Walker right now, powerful, together, brave. Not the disgraced Tracy Quartermaine, crawling back to her family in hoping for crumbs of forgiveness. "You have every right to be here."

She nodded, steeling herself, as if the name alone were some form of post-hypnotic suggestion that gave her strength and courage. "Let's do this."

They made their way to the main entrance, ignoring the reporters and emergency workers who hurried past. If there were any familiar faces, Tracy didn't let it show. She kept her eyes forward, walking straight past the front desk towards the elevators. She flashed Simon an encouraging look as he entered behind her—how could she even be thinking about his claustrophobia at a time like this?—and held his hand as they went up to the fourth floor.

When the doors opened, they stepped out into a large receiving area. At least, Simon stepped out. Tracy took one step out of the elevator and stopped cold.

Simon followed her gaze to where a man in a lab coat was standing, reading a chart. He seemed to be just a couple of years older than Tracy, with dark hair, a heavy face that had once been handsome, and a tall, commanding build. He looked up as the elevators closed and almost dropped the chart he held. His eyes grew wide in recognition, flickers of joy, pain, and confusion all playing on that aging, handsome face.

He crossed the room in a few broad steps and, without a word, pulled Tracy into a hard embrace, lifting her off the floor with the sheer force of it. "Tracy…."

Simon stepped away, watching as Tracy wrapped herself in the man's arms, holding him tightly as they stood there for a long time, neither making a sound, stroking each other's hair, kissing each other's cheeks. It wasn't the reception he'd expected, but he was glad for it. Glad that Tracy's first encounter with someone (her brother, maybe?) had been a good one.

When they finally pulled apart, they assessed each other's appearances, obviously adjusting for twenty years of aging. "You look…beautiful," the man said as he stared at her. "Monica said—she thought that…" He stopped, shaking his head. "We thought it was a hoax."

"How's Daddy?" Tracy asked in a low voice.

"In surgery. We're understaffed for this emergency, but they managed to get a cardiologist in from Mount Sinai."

"Why didn't Monica--?"

"She can't operate on family, Trace, you know that." He brushed her hair from her eyes, still staring at her. "I can't believe you're here."

"I didn't have a choice," she said, finally acknowledging Simon. She reached for him, pulling her into their little circle. "Alan, I'd like you to meet Dr. Simon Fullerton, my friend and business associate. Simon, this is my brother, Dr. Alan Quartermaine."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Simon said, extending his hand. He noticed how Alan's demeanor changed when he looked at Simon, the eyes narrowing, the darkening expression. He realized immediately he was being judged, evaluated, suspected. "Tracy and I have been friends for some time now. I'm sorry to hear about your father," he added.

"Well, thank you for…" Alan turned to his sister. "What am I thanking him for?"

"He convinced me to come here." She pursed her lips, looking away for a moment before continuing. "I don't know if I'd have had the guts to do it if he and Annabeth hadn't…" She brushed the mood off like a pesky fly. "It doesn't matter. I'm here, now, and that's that. Where's Mother? In the waiting room?" Tracy moved as if to leave, but Alan stopped her.

His expression was pained, and Simon could see Tracy stiffening in reaction. It was like they had a short-hand between them, little expressions and gestured developed over years of familial trainings, ways of communicating that were instantaneous and incomprehensible to outsiders.

"What happened?" Tracy said flatly.

"You don't know. Mother is at the house. Her health is fragile, Tracy. She's not a young woman anymore, and well, we didn't want to upset her until we had news one way or another."

Tracy's temper seemed to flare as if it had a physical body of its own. "Alan, how can you do that? You know Mother would want to be here. What if—" She leaned in close, taking Alan's arm into her own, effectively blocking off the rest of the room (including Simon). "What if he doesn't make it?" she continued in a much lower tone. "What would Mother think if the first thing she finds out about Daddy's…surgery…" Simon noticed she couldn't say the words 'heart attack.' "Was that he didn't survive?"

"Tracy, our father is a strong man. He's survived a lot, and he's getting the best care possible."

Simon could see it now, the traces of contention between them as the moment of reconciliation transitioned into the realities of two adults dealing with the care of their aging parents. He listened quietly as they discussed Edward's surgery, Lila's medical condition (much more serious than Alan had first implied) and what to do in the event that the worst case scenario played out.

He also noticed, although it was subtle, that Alan downplayed or outright rejected every suggestion Tracy made. He wasn't sure if this had always been the way with them, or if Tracy's 20 year absence had somehow rendered her opinions on the matter moot.

Things were just starting to get heated when a young man emerged from the elevator. He was in his late 30s, very handsome, and obviously under a great deal of stress. He walked straight to Alan and was about to start speaking when he noticed Tracy for the first time.

It was the quietest moment in the history of all time, Simon guessed.

When the young man spoke, he spoke directly to Tracy, with a lifetime of venom lacing every single word.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here, Mother?"

_Coming in Chapter Nine: The Piper's Bill_


	9. The Piper's Bill

**_Chapter Nine: The Piper's Bill_**

He was quite simply the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

That was her first thought, the most overwhelming impression she got from Edward Ashton when he came up to them.

He was beautiful. This gorgeous, perfect man. His soulful eyes, dimpled cheeks, exquisitely formed face, soft dark hair. He was the epitome of masculine grace, every bit as handsome as his father had been at his best, every bit as strong as her father had been, or her brother. An unspeakably perfect blend of the best physical traits of both the Quartermaine and the Ashton lines.

He took her breath away, this son of hers.

She couldn't speak—couldn't even part her lips to try. She simply stared at him, this child she'd borne who'd grown up literally while her back was turned.

"I can't believe you would show your face at a time like this," he continued when she didn't speak. She noticed he had some of Larry's vocal inflections, although how that had happened, she couldn't fathom. Maybe it was genetic…

"Don't you have anything to say? Any lies to tell? Let me guess—you heard about the fire and couldn't get on a plane fast enough to be at Dear Grandfather's Bedside."

A young woman had come up to him now. Tracy didn't remember seeing her get off the elevator, but she wasn't tracking very clearly through the haze of things. The woman had very pale skin, silky red hair, elegant features. She could have been a fashion model, except for the hardness in her eyes. "What's going on, Daddy?" she said to Alan.

"Daddy?" This was the first word Tracy managed to speak since Ned had entered the scene. She turned to Alan with a questioning look.

"Not now, Skye," he warned. "Ned, you need to calm down. The last thing your Grandfather needs is an all-scale war between you and your mother to break out."

"Your mother? _You're_ Tracy Quartermaine?" Skye stared at her as if seeing a legend, or a monster from a horror film. "Well, isn't this interesting?"

"Enough," Alan said firmly. "Tracy has every right to be here. So let's not start anything. We have things to do, decisions to make, and I don't think squabbling between us is the best way to—"

"She has no voice in any decisions we make in this family, Alan." He pushed away the hand that Alan had placed on his shoulder. "Whatever she has to say, she can find somebody who gives a damn."

"Hey, now—" Tracy turned to see Simon—had she forgotten he was here?—pushing through the little huddle of Quartermaines to take her side. "There's no need for—"

"Who the hell is this, Mother? Husband Number What? Or is he your accountant? Your parole officer?" Ned was glaring at her, his entire body poised for battle, as if he'd been waiting all his life for this chance.

She realized that he probably _had_ been waiting all his life for this chance. "Ned, I didn't come to cause any trouble." Her own voice was soft. Maybe even a bit repentant. She didn't know for sure. It was hard to tell where the choking in her throat ended and the actual emotion began.

Her son hated her.

It wasn't a huge surprise, really. Why shouldn't he hate her? She'd abandoned him, and left him in the care of a family who…

What had they told him? How much had twenty years embellished the tales of her evil? Who was she, now? Pathetic Tracy who married the wrong men? Manipulative Tracy who pulled all the strings for her own greedy reasons?

Or Murderess Tracy who committed the unspeakable crime of trying to kill Edward, and failing?

"Ned…I just came to see your grandfather." She barely recognized her own voice, gentle, pleading. She tried to remember the last time she needed like this, the last time someone's opinion of her mattered so desperately.

Daddy.

"She's trying to get back into Grandfather's will," Skye said with unmistakable scorn in her voice. "Of all the nerve…"

"Oh, shut up, whoever you are," Tracy said, her temper flaring at the audacity of this little red-haired bitch who was apparently another of Alan and Monica's offspring. She wondered who Monica had slept with to get pregnant with this little monster.

"No, she's right mother," Ned said darkly. He stared at her, his eyes flaming with years of hatred and resentment. "You may think you're going to weasel your way into the family, but you're wrong. There are too many people around, now. You can't get to him, you can't be alone with him." He turned to Simon again. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm her friend," Simon said simply. "Simon Fullerton."

"Well did your _friend /i?_ here tell you why she's not welcome in Port Charles?" Ned asked with a sneer.

"Ned, son, now's not time for this," Alan said in a placating tone.

"I'm not _your_ son, Alan. I'm hers." Ned fixed her with a glare that would have shot holes through a lesser woman. As it was, Tracy felt that she'd been struck physically. "I'm the heir apparent to Tracy Quartermaine's legacy, a hell of a lot of good that did me. Did you _friend_ tell you how she just up and left, Simon? Until I was eighteen, all Tracy Quartermaine was to me was a check from _Banc Suisse_ at birthdays and holidays. Once, she sent me a postcard from India. I thought she was a Buddhist for a while, but then I realized that couldn't be possible because she doesn't have a soul."

"Ned…"

"Stay out of this, Alan," Tracy said softly. "Let him say his peace."

"When I turned eighteen, I got my trust fund. And the checks stopped. There were no postcards. She was gone. All I had left of my no-good mother was her legacy, her gift to me. Do you know what that was, Simon? Besides money, do you know what my mother, Tracy Quartermaine, gave to me?" He narrowed his eyes. "The joy of growing up the son of an attempted murderer."

Alan put his arm on Ned's, but the younger man brushed it off. "Listen, Ned, I know you're angry. But now is not the time or place to be airing the family's dirty laundry. We all know what happened with your mother, but that was a long time ago."

"You have no idea what happened with me," Tracy whispered, her heart sinking. It had never occurred to her—no, she'd never wanted to think about it. What would life be like for Ned if the real reason she was banished ever got out? What kind of life would he have?

"Did she tell you everything, Simon?"

Tracy watched Simon's expression carefully, her stomach in knots, her hands shaking. It didn't seem real, somehow, that this would be happening. She'd just come to see Daddy. She still hadn't seen Daddy. Why was Ned destroying her? Didn't he understand…?

He didn't understand. Nobody did, not even Tracy.

Ned leveled his gaze at Simon, as if aiming for the killing blow. "Tell me, Simon. Did your _friend_ ever tell you how she tried to murder her own father?"

_Coming in Chapter Ten: The Truth and a Cup of Tea_


	10. The Truth and a Cup of Tea

**_Chapter Ten: The Truth and a Cup of Tea_**

It was enough for Simon and Alan to intervene, and without a word between them, they conspired to separate Tracy and Ned. Alan physically inserted himself between the young man and his target, and Simon took Tracy by the arm, heading for the elevator.

"Come on," he said softly. "Let's get some breakfast. There has to be a coffee shop around here somewhere."

"I can't leave it like this," she said, resisting him, trying to turn back to where Alan was talking furtively to Ned. The older man looked haggard and unfit for such strenuous efforts, but he managed to keep Ned and Skye occupied long enough for Simon to pull Tracy away from the situation.

"He'll still be angry after you've gotten something in your stomach. You're tired and jet-lagged, Tracy, and I don't think you need to be dealing with this in your condition."

"My condition?" She shook her head, her eyes rolling. "You don't know anything about my condition, Simon. This isn't some isolated event. This is my family. This is how we are, how we interact." She paused as Ned turned to glare at her. Simon could see the pain in her eyes, on her face. He didn't know what to believe, who to believe, but he knew damn well that if she had another collapse, in front of her family was not the place he wanted her to do it.

"Then you need your strength if you're going to face them." He put an arm around her shoulder, turning her towards the elevator. "Listen, Tracy, you know I only have your best interests in mind. I know this is difficult for you, but I want you to trust me. You need to step away from this for a moment, gather your wits, back off from it." He looked over his shoulders. Ned and Skye were headed down the hallway, and Alan was looking after Tracy and Simon. He made eye contact with Simon, and nodded, as if to say, yes, get her away for a moment, give us some time to digest the fact that she's back.

He had the feeling he would've liked Alan Quartermaine under different circumstances.

"I need to see my father," she said in a child-like tone.

"He's in surgery, honey. It could be hours before you can see him."

"I want to see my mother," she said.

"Let's get something to eat, then I'll drive you out there myself."

She looked up at him, her eyes confused and tired. "You don't hate me?"

"I don't know the whole story yet, but I'm certainly not going to destroy a twenty year friendship based on the words of a bitter young man out to hurt his estranged mother." He pulled her in close, letting her rest her head on his chest for a long moment before herding her into the elevator. They rode down in silence, his hand wrapped around hers until they got to the lobby level and exited. Tracy led him through the crowd of people straight to the hospital's coffee shop, which was just opening up.

A young woman with long dark hair grabbed two menus and told them, in a thick New York accent, to "have a seat anywhere." There were already a few tables occupied, and Simon could tell it was going to be the start of a very busy morning rush. He led Tracy to a secluded spot, seating her with her back to the crowd. He didn't want her distracted by anyone, and he wanted her to feel safe enough to talk without her voice carrying out over the crowd. They scanned the menus for a moment—basic coffee-shop fare. "Not quite Farinelli's," he said to Tracy. "But it's something, right?"

She said nothing. She was staring at the menu with blank eyes, obviously not reading a thing. Simon took the menu from her, placing it on the table beside her. He was just about to speak when the young brunette returned with two glasses of water.

"Ya know what you want?"

"A Bloody Mary with a vodka chaser," Tracy said glumly, still staring straight ahead.

"Um, we don't serve alcoholic beverages here," the waitress said, the concerned expression on her face showing she obviously expected trouble.

Simon intervened, getting the girl's attention. "Do you have herbal tea?"

"Yeah, peppermint and chamomile."

"The lady will have one of each, and I'll have a cup of coffee." He nodded to the menu and added. "We'll both have the breakfast special. Don't worry about the sides—just throw something on the plate, and we'll be fine."

"How do you want your eggs done?"

Simon really didn't want to deal with this—anything, he was about to say.

"Scrambled," Tracy said, looking at the girl for the first time. She sighed, staring at the young woman's face.

"Okay…." The girl hesitated, then asked, "Are you okay, ma'am?"

Tracy's eyes closed, and she looked like she was about to start crying.

Simon stepped in, putting his hand over Tracy's. "Her father had a heart attack last night. She's a little shaken," he added gently.

"Aw, man, I'm sorry. My great-grandfather had a heart attack, too." She shook her head, a tired expression crossing her pretty features. "In fact, I wasn't supposed to be working today—it's wacko in here. But the thought of hanging out there with all those Quartermaines…"

"You're a Quartermaine?" Simon asked, noticing how Tracy's expression changed from deadened apathy to sharp curiosity.

"Barely, according to Great-Grandfather." She shrugged. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I'd rather be here than up there anyway. I volunteered to work this morning, mainly because I can't stand to be around all the fighting." The young girl stopped, obviously remembering that she was supposed to be working and not talking. "Hey, I'm sorry. You don't need to know that, right?"

"Edward Quartermaine is your great-grandfather?" Tracy's voice was low and calm, her words evenly spaced and cautious.

"You know him?"

Tracy's expression faltered, a shadow of regret crossing over her. "I…used to know him."

"Yeah, he's my great-grandfather." The waitress stared at Tracy. "How weird is it that you knew my great-granddad?"

"I thought everybody knew Edward Quartermaine," Simon prompted.

"Well, yeah, there is that certain degree of notoriety…"

"Are you A.J.'s daughter?" Tracy was staring at the girl openly, not even trying to hide her curiosity.

The young woman, her hair was covering her name tag, laughed. "If you know the Quartermaines, then you should know that if A.J. _was_ my father, which he's not, I sure as hell wouldn't admit it."

"Then you're…what was her name? Skye. Your Skye's daughter?"

"Ha! Uh, no, I sure as hell wouldn't want to be that shrew's daughter either." She made a gesture of moving her hair, revealing a name tag that read _Brooke Lynn Ashton_. "I'm from the Black Sheep's side. You know, the _Other_ one."

Simon saw Tracy's face go white, saw her hand clutch the glass of water tightly as she digested this bit of information. "Um, miss, perhaps you should go put our order in. My friend has really low blood sugar, and I think it would be a good idea—"

"No problem," Brooke said, smiling. "I'm really sorry. Not exactly cut out for waitressing, you know, but my dad wants me to learn responsibility. I'll get this in, and have your tea and coffee out in just a minute, 'kay?"

"Thank you," Simon said as the girl left them alone. He turned to Tracy, who looked as if she couldn't quite digest what she'd just seen. "You okay, Boss Lady?"

"I'm going to be ill."

"No you're not, Tracy." He used the tip of his finger to nudge her water glass toward her. "Drink something."

She took a huge sip of water, downing it like she might have chugged a Scotch back in her drinking days, and put it down hard on the table. "Oh, my god…."

"You have a grand-daughter."

"I have a grown-up grand-daughter," she corrected, her jaw slack, her eyes blank and staring forward. "How the hell did that happen?"

Simon began to chuckle. "Um, well, it's pretty straightforward."

She glared at him, then took another swallow of water, emptying the glass. Then she grabbed his and downed half of it in one shot. "What the hell is my grand-daughter doing shlepping food in a diner?"

"It's not a diner. It's a coffee shop, and she told you what she's doing. Her father wants her to learn responsibility."

"In a coffee shop? Why not ELQ? Why not a job in the mail room, or maybe answering phones? She's a Quartermaine, for gods sake! She shouldn't be—"

"Tracy, calm down," he said, trying to get her attention. She took a deep breath, her face contorted with anger and confusion. "How about we just sit here for a minute, and try to get our bearings?"

"Fine." She reached for the glass of water, remembered it was empty, and put it back down. "This isn't happening," she muttered.

"Try to stay calm," Simon responded in his most calming voice. Honestly, though, he'd spent a net time of maybe fifteen minutes with the Quartermaine family, and he was ready to pull his hair out. He had no problem understanding why Tracy had cut herself off from them. "We'll figure this out."

"I knew I shouldn't have come here," she whispered, staring down at the place setting in front of her. She picked up a fork and started toying with it, balancing it on its prongs and twirling it one way then another. "It was a horrible mistake."

"It was the right thing to do. You can't keep running from this."

"You _saw_ how they reacted to me, Simon! You saw them. And those are the ones who like me. Or don't know me. What do you think my father is going to do when he sees me? Welcome me with open arms?" She dropped the fork, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. "What was I thinking?"

"You were thinking you love your father," he said honestly. She couldn't meet his eyes, so he just continued. "You were thinking this feud's gone on long enough, that you can't bear to carry the burden of it any longer." He reached out for her hand, holding it softly in his own. "The nightmares you were having—were they about your father?"

She nodded, not saying anything.

"About what happened, twenty years ago?"

"Please…don't ask me just yet. I can't…I can't talk about it." She bit her lower lip, her eyes downward, unable to look at him, unable to control the trembling in her hands. "I'm sorry, Simon. I know what you must be thinking."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking," he said with intensity. She was hurting, he could tell, and all he was thinking about was how to protect her. How to care for her. He didn't know if what Ned said was true; he doubted it was a complete fiction, but suspected that the truth had been warped to make Tracy look as bad as possible. "I'm not going to press you, baby," he added. "But sooner or later, I think you're going to want to tell your side of the story."

She looked up at him gratefully and was about to speak when the waitress, her granddaughter, returned with their drinks. The girl lingered there for a moment after placing down the coffee and teas, obviously wanting to say something, but not quite sure how. "Um, ma'am?"

Tracy steeled herself, looking up at the young woman with a tight smile. "Yes?"

"You know, I don't mean to be a bother…but…" She hesitated, embarrassed. "Um, your food will be up in a few minutes."

"Thank you," Tracy said, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. "Anything else?"

The girl, Brooke, blushed, smiling shyly. "You said you used to know my great-grandfather, right?"

"Yeah. A very long time ago," Tracy added.

She hesitated, nervous, looking almost guilty. "Did you, um, know my grandmother? Tracy Quartermaine?"

Simon swore he saw Tracy gulp. She blinked her eyes hard, the words not coming. "Uh…"

"Hey, it's okay. I know. I've heard the stories…."

"What stories," Simon prompted quickly.

Brooke Lynn grinned. "Well, from everything I've heard, the woman was hell on wheels, a real trouble-maker. Great-Granddad says I'm her spitting image, and that I'll probably come to no good."

"He shouldn't say that," Tracy said softly.

"Yeah, well, Great-Granddad isn't really big on "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts" unless they apply to other people."

"You said a mouthful."

"I saw a picture of her once," Brooke continued, her eyes getting this faraway look. "She couldn't have been more than nineteen. Wow, talk about perfect features, you know? High cheekbones, pretty eyes—really gorgeous. But she just looked so sad." She shrugged. "You probably heard the rumors about her—about what a bitch she was, how vicious she could be to anybody who got in her way. But I always thought…"

"What, Sweetie?" Tracy was looking at the girl now, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "What did you think?"

"I'm a screw-up, too. I guess I always thought maybe she wasn't so bad. Maybe she was just different, and didn't fit in to this family like she was supposed to. And believe me, not fitting in is a sin in the Quartermaines."

Tracy nodded, her face gentle and relaxed. She looked up at the girl, not saying anything for a long moment. "You know something? I did know your grandmother. I…think she would have liked you. A lot."

"Yeah, well, according to EddieQ, we're gonna have adjoining suites in Hell, so that's probably a good thing." She laughed, her face pretty and bright for one carrying the burden of such a family. Simon heard a bell in the background, and turned along with Brooke. "Hey, sounds like your specials are up. I'll stop bothering you and get your breakfast."

"You're not bothering us, Brooke," Tracy said, but let the girl go do her job.

"Pretty nice kid, huh?" Simon said.

"Yeah. Too bad she's gonna hate me like all the rest of them when she finds out who I am."

_Coming in Chapter Eleven: God Bless the Child Who's Got His Own_


	11. God Bless the Child

**_Chapter Eleven: God Bless the Child Who's Got His Own_**

She felt shaky as she walked up the steps to the Quartermaine mansion. It looked the same, no less enormous, no less oppressive than it had been all those years before. The trees were a little larger, a few shrubs here and there that hadn't been there before. They'd put a new fence around the rose garden, although she doubted it kept out the neighborhood dogs. Lila's rose garden had always been a haven for local mutts looking to get a few kicks in before being sent off to the groomer's or the kennels or whatever.

Tracy looked around, knowing that it was a stalling tactic. Simon was waiting patiently for her, next to her, standing in the cold February air, not complaining. She wondered what on earth she'd ever done to deserve his loyalty, and figured she'd never know. Maybe some people were just born decent, and she'd been lucky enough to stumble onto one of the naturals.

"You know, the doorbell works better when you actually use it," he said through chattering teeth.

It wasn't that cold, really, but she knew the point he was making. Sooner or later, she was going to ring that bell and, if allowed, cross that threshold.

Tracy steeled herself. It was different this time, different from all the other times she'd found herself on this doorstep. Back from school, back after the divorce with Larry. Home from parties, way after curfew. Home from dates, wishing they didn't have to end. Home from dates, grateful they were finally ending.

Everything in her life seemed to lead her to this doorstep, this bell, this place that never seemed to change--from the feel of the doorknob to the knot in her stomach.

She was thirteen and thirty-one and fifty, simultaneously.

She held her breath and rang the bell.

It was a moment before anyone answered. She doubted seriously she'd know the person who came to the door, and she was right. It was a woman in a housekeeper's uniform, taller than any woman she'd ever met, and built like--well, a bulldozer, to be honest. She had shoulder-length auburn hair and the build of a linebacker, but she smiled politely. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're not talking to reporters." She seemed to be enjoying her gatekeeper duties.

"We're not reporters," Simon said, taking the lead as he'd done so many times since all this blew up. His voice exuded confidence, and the tall woman responded to him immediately. She paused, the door still open a crack, and listened. "We're here to see Mrs. Quartermaine," he continued, pushing his toe in the space between the door and the door jamb.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Quartermaine isn't seeing visitors today," she said. The woman actually sounded apologetic as she smiled at Simon, her round face practically glowing as she spoke to him.

"Please," Tracy managed to find her voice. "Please, um…what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," the housekeeper said sharply, eying Tracy carefully. "Have I met you before?"

"No…No, I'm certain we haven't met before."

She scrutinized Tracy, her gaze seeming to take in every detail of the smaller woman's face. "I know I've seen you somewhere before…"

"Could you please tell my mother that Tracy would like to speak with her?" she asked tiredly, ending the guessing game. If the housekeeper had orders to refuse Tracy entrance, so be it. But it was cold, and she was tired of fiddling around with this.

"That's where I know you from!" She nodded, a huge smile on her face. "I never forget a face, even faces I've only seen in photographs. There's one of you in Mrs. Lila's study--I saw it once when I was--"

"Will you please just let us in out of the cold or send us on our way?" Tracy's patience was wearing thin, and she made no attempt to hide that fact.

The housekeeper looked affronted, but opened the door. "Come in," she said, her eyes narrowing and a warning tone seeping into her voice. "But don't touch anything." She nodded knowingly at Tracy, then motioned for them to sit down on the couch. "I'll see if Mrs. Lila can receive you." And without another word, she was gone.

Tracy drew in a hard breath, relieved to be rid of the insufferable woman. She collapsed on the couch and motioned for Simon to join her. He was still standing, staring around him at the sheer, oppressive enormity of it all. "Like a mausoleum, isn't it?" she said as he joined her on the couch, still craning his neck to take it all in. "Welcome to my childhood," she added without humor.

"Whoa."

"Very articulate, Professor," she laughed. Once upon a time, she might have misunderstood his awe, or been embarrassed by it. Now she was just tiredly amused.

"You grew up here?"

"When I wasn't in some Swiss boarding school, yes," she admitted. She knew that Simon came from the middle class. He'd probably never even considered what it was like living in a place like this--the kind of place Tracy had taken for granted until twenty years ago. "Not the warmest place to grow up, but it had its perks. Like the boathouse, for instance." She smiled, thinking of the multitude of scandalous things she'd done there while Daddy was away on business. "That was always good for a bit of fun."

"Let me guess--swimming pool and tennis courts?"

"Private lake and tennis courts," she corrected. She laughed at his incredulous look, stroking her hand across his forehead. "You've been amazing to me, Simon," she said in a soft voice. "I couldn't have made it through the last 24 hours without you."

"I think this does extend a little beyond my job description," he said.

Tracy was just about to respond when they heard a door opening.

"Well, your father must be in very bad shape if you've come home."

Tracy's heart stopped for just a moment at the familiar accented voice. She stood immediately, turning to see her mother entering the room, frail, much older, confined to an electronic wheelchair, but still as beautiful as ever. She couldn't speak for a moment--her throat was constricting, and she had to fight the urge to bolt across the room and throw herself bodily into her mother's arms.

"Hello, darling," Lila Quartermaine said, extending her arms for an embrace.

Tracy was across the room in no time, Simon forgotten, Edward forgotten, twenty years of dreams and memories and loneliness forgotten. All was forgotten, all was forgiven--on her part, anyway--when she felt her mother's arms around her, when she felt that familiar warmth, breathed in the scent of Lila, of home, of safety for the first time in two decades.

She found she was sobbing, holding on to her mommy for dear life, oblivious to anything but the heartbeat next to her, the arms around her, the soft voice whispering, "There, there, child" in her ear. How long she stayed like that, she didn't know. It could have been a minute; it could have been an hour or two. All she knew was that when she finally pulled free of Lila's embrace, she felt stronger and safer than she had in years.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," she whispered, her hands reaching for Lila's face tentatively, as if she were a mirage that would vanish under too much scrutiny. "I'm so sorry."

"Nonsense, Tracy," her mother said in that tone she got that simply brushed away trouble without a second thought. It was the voice she'd used so many times when Tracy was a teenager, the one that got her off the hook with Edward more times than she could remember. "You've come home at last. The time for apologies is long since over, at least on your part. Have you been to the hospital? Have you any word on your father's condition?"

She stared blankly at Lila. "Alan said they weren't going to tell you--"

"Oh, yes, that." She rolled her eyes, a quick flick of her hands her only acknowledgement of Alan's attempt to protect her from the truth. "The paper mysteriously vanished and the cable was unexpectedly out," she said conspiratorially. "Of course, they completely forgot that my cellular telephone has internet access. I get the news, right in the palm of my hands," she said with a little superior tone. "It was kind of them to try to protect me, dear, but really. I've been with your father for decades. I don't need to be protected when it comes to him."

Tracy laughed, still kneeling in front of her mother's chair, loathe to move even the short distance to the couch. "He was still in surgery when we left. We wanted to see you--make sure you were all right."

"You flew in all the way from Seattle…Ms. Walker?" Lila's voice took on a conspiratorial tone.

Tracy's eyes grew wide. "How--?"

"Oh, Tracy. Your father is a stubborn man, but he doesn't control me. I wanted to know where my daughter disappeared to, so I hired a private investigator years ago. Once I knew you were all right, I decided to leave you to your own devices. I knew, sooner or later, you'd come back in your own time." She turned to Simon, who had been watching the entire scene in rapt fascination. "You must be Dr. Simon Fullerton," she added, to both their surprise. Turning to Tracy, she said, "Well, _he_ has his picture up on the Freedom Energies website!"

"Mother, you're full of surprises," Tracy said, her voice choked with love. "Simon, this is my mother, Lila Quartermaine. Mother…" She turned to Simon, unsure just how to introduce him. Suddenly, here, with all this love and acceptance, "friend and business associate" didn't seem to fit. "Simon Fullerton, one of my best friends in the world." Yes, that was better.

She was grateful that Simon stood, crossed the distance to take Lila's hand properly. He may have been raised middle class, but Simon had manners and knew how to use them. He placed his free hand over Lila's, sandwiching her frail hand between his two strong ones, and held her like that for a long moment. "Tracy has told me nothing but wonderful things about you, Mrs. Quartermaine," he said graciously, with a slight bow.

"Alice," Lila said. "Please set up rooms for Tracy and her young man." She raised an eyebrow. "Am I correct in assuming you'll need two rooms?"

Tracy blushed, shaking her head. "No, Mama, we're not…we already have rooms at the Tanglewood Inn."

"The little Bed and Breakfast on Old Millers Road?" Lila clapped her hands together. "What a charming place! Emily took me for lunch there about a month ago. They have the nicest little lavender cookies--oh, Tracy, you must try them."

"Who's Emily, Mother?"

Lila paused for breath, then chuckled. "You've missed quite a lot around here, my darling. There are more than a few new faces to get used to. Emily is Monica and Alan's adopted daughter." She paused, her face twisting slightly in dismay. "Oh, dear. Emily has your old room now. I suppose we could put you up in the east wing--it's very nice, especially in the winter. All the heat from the--"

"Mother, we're not staying here. I just said that," Tracy added patiently, wondering if perhaps senility was setting in. She turned to Simon, who had returned to his place on the couch, but he was no help. He was just sitting there, smiling, watching the scene with a curious satisfaction she didn't quite comprehend.

"Of course you just said that. And you can call that lovely Tanglewood Inn and cancel your rooms--"

"But Daddy--"

"Tracy Lila Quartermaine, your father may be a stubborn old man, but I am not going to be told who can and cannot stay under my own roof." She waggled her eyebrows. "Besides, he's in surgery right now. It's not like he's in any position to throw his weight around."

Tracy hesitated, considering. She couldn't count the times she'd dreamed of being back under this roof, of waking up among familiar surroundings. But something in her wouldn't let it happen, and she shook her head sadly. "I can't, Mother. I appreciate the offer. You know I do. But…" She shook her head, unable to make eye contact. "Not like this, Mommy. Not behind his back."

Lila brushed Tracy's hair from her eyes, gazing thoughtfully on her daughter's face. "He will come around, you know."

"It's been over twenty years." Tracy's demeanor didn't change, but it was impossible to keep the hurt and rejection from her voice. She smiled up at her mother, an expression more sad than happy. "But you keep on hoping, Mother. I love your for your optimism."

The phone rang, and Alice crossed the room to get it. In a moment, she was back at Lila's side. "That was my snitch at the hospital, Mrs. Q. Mr. Q is out of surgery, and according to my informant, he's A-Okay."

"You're a treasure, Alice, dear. Thank you." Once the housekeeper was gone, Lila turned back to Tracy, who was almost doubled-over with relief. "Well, Tracy. Looks like your father has survived yet another heart scare."

The words were like a blade across her stomach, and she looked up at Lila with an expression of wounded astonishment. As soon as Lila saw her face, she knew she'd mistepped, that the wounds were not healed at all, that this last scare had opened everything up in her daughter. She reached out and cupped Tracy's face in her hand, kissing her forehead softly. "Forgive me, dear," she whispered. "That was insensitive."

"It was true…" Tracy's stomach was heavy; it felt like she had rocks in her abdomen. She burrowed her face in her mother's hands, blinking back tears. "He never forgave me, did he?"

"No, Tracy. Your father is a very stubborn man. He likes to blame everyone else for his own faults, and is even happier when they have faults of their own to add to the list."

"I'm sorry, Mommy. If I could take it back, I would. In a heartbeat." She leaned against her mother, letting herself be wrapped in another embrace. "I've relieved that night so many times, and every time I think, if only I had reacted differently, if only I had known…"

"Edward was wrong to put you in that position. He never should have tested you like that, never should have forced you into that sort of decision."

"It shouldn't have been a choice at all, Mother," she whispered into the soft fabric of Lila's dress. "Not to a real daughter, not to a decent human being."

"Tracy, what happened is in the past, where it belongs. You made a mistake, goaded on by a sadistic and completely inappropriate trap your father set." Lila's voice was filled with a sort of venom, a decades-old anger at her husband for laying the plan that inevitably broke up their home. "We all make mistakes, daughter. You are as worthy of forgiveness as any of God's creatures."

Tracy rested her head against Lila's heart, wishing that her words were true, but strongly suspecting that Lila didn't have all the facts. At least where Edward was concerned. "I have to see him," she said in a flat voice. It was something she dreaded, something she couldn't bear, but something she also could not avoid. "I need to go back to the hospital."

Lila nodded, stroking her hair. "I understand, Tracy." She lifted her daughter's chin until they were eye to eye, catching Tracy's gaze and not letting it go. "You come back here. Don't leave without coming back to this house, Tracy Lila Quartermaine." Her tone brooked no arguments, and Tracy didn't offer any

"I will, Mother," she said, placing a kiss on her mother's cheek. "Now, we need to go."

"Go," Lila said, still holding Tracy's hand as she stood to leave. "It was good meeting you, Dr. Fullerton."

"Simon, please."

She nodded. "Make sure she returns, Simon. Give me your word."

"I promise, Mrs. Quartermaine," Simon said, reaching out to shake Lila's hand before joining Tracy at the front door. "I won't let her leave without seeing you again."

Lila nodded happily. "You looked like a nice man," she said pleasantly as the two hurried back out into the frigid winter day. "Alice! Where's my Blackberry, dear? I want to check the stock prices."

_Coming in Chapter Twelve: The Old Man and the Demons He Commands_


	12. The Old Man and the Demons

**_Chapter Twelve: The Old Man and the Demons He Commands _**

The wall to Edward's room had a long window in it. Simon stood next to Tracy as they gazed in on The Old Man, although he found himself watching her more than Edward. Her eyes were lost, somewhere between here and a million years ago, soft, very focused, but not on anything he himself could see.

She looked maybe ten years old in this light, all her power and poise and composure gone as she watched the red-haired nurse taking "Daddy's" vitals.

The family was in some sort of meeting. She'd been expressly not invited; it was ELQ business, Alan had said curtly as they departed. Someone named Justus would be handling things.

Tracy hadn't seemed to care at all as they left en masse. She was staring at the man in the bed.

Daddy.

Simon turned to study this man who commanded the lives of so many people. Old. Round-faced. Of course, he wouldn't seem like much now--post-op heart patients usually weren't all that impressive.

But he could tell a lot about Edward Quartermaine from his family, from their expressions when they spoke of him. There was respect there, yes, but it was thick with fear. This was not a man who commanded through generosity; even his adult son seemed to shrink when he spoke of his father.

And Tracy…

She was watching him with such sadness in her eyes, so much pain. Simon had no idea what to believe. Ned had accused her of attempted murder, and he suspected it had something to do with "Daddy" in there. But everything he knew about Tracy, everything he admired in her and respected about her told him they were mistaken. Or that at least, they weren't telling him all of the story.

Maybe at some point in her life, Tracy Quartermaine had been capable of such an act. But Tracy Walker, the woman he called friend, could not do anything like attempted murder.

And then there was Lila. The woman did not show any symptoms of dementia or memory loss. She was physically weak, but mentally alert and aware. And Lila had certainly not treated Tracy like she suspected her daughter of attempted patricide.

There was a movement in the room, and Simon snapped his eyes away from Tracy to see the nurse coming to the door. Tracy moved quickly to intercept her. The woman sighed when she saw Tracy. "He needs his rest, Tracy," she said.

"I won't wake him."

She shook her head. "I'm sure you have the best intentions." Her tone indicated that the nurse most definitely did not believe Tracy had any good intentions at all, much less 'the best.' "But he's too weak now for any excitement." Of which, she implied but didn't say aloud, you couldn't help but provide.

The nurse moved to pass her, but Tracy held out her hand, taking the woman's shoulder gently. "Bobbie…" Her voice was soft, almost pleading. "I know you have no reason to trust me. But he's my father. I haven't seen him in twenty years, and..." Her voice cracked. "I just want a moment, before my family gets back and shuts me out." She caught Bobbie's eyes, holding her gaze for a long time. "If you want me to beg, I'll beg. I need to…I need him." The last words were almost inaudible, and Simon could see that Bobbie was struggling with her decision. "Please, Bobbie…"

"Oh, god, Tracy," she sighed. "Look, if you do _anything_ to upset him, I will personally have your hide." She looked down the corridor, then nodded towards the door. "Five minutes. Don't wake him, and don't cause any trouble."

"Thank you," Tracy whispered, grasping Bobbie's hands in hers before turning toward the door.

"I'll be at the nurses' station. If I hear anything…" But she didn't finish her sentence. She didn't need to; they both seemed to agree that Tracy was here on the nurse's sufferance, and that alone was enough to ensure her promised good behavior.

It said a lot about Tracy's state of mind that she barely noticed Simon as she entered the room, didn't notice that he followed her in, staying just inside the door. She was focused only on the man in the bed, the center of her universe.

Edward Quartermaine.

She moved to his bedside, gazing on him as he slept, reaching forward to place a feather-light touch against his forehead. She watched. She paced. She watched some more. And when she started talking, it was in a soft, almost childlike voice, a voice she no doubt never intended Simon to hear. A voice that held all the broken pieces that remained of Tracy Quartermaine.

"Should I adjust your pillow, Daddy?" She leaned forward, just barely touching his pillow, obviously afraid of disturbing him. "Is that better? What about the light in here? Is it -- is it hurting your eyes?" Tracy paced, never taking her eyes off of Edward, even as she seemed to search for ways of making him more comfortable. "Daddy, what do I do? What do you want? I'm so bad at this. I love you."

Simon's eye caught motion in the outer hallway, and he turned to see Alan, Ned, and a good-looking young black man just outside the window. Alan and the young man were talking, but Ned had come to the window and was watching the scene between his mother and grandfather intently. Simon pushed back against the door, trying to make himself invisible.

"I missed you, Daddy," Tracy continued, oblivious to her growing audience. "I suppose you're surprised to hear me say that, but -- you know, the whole time that I was away, there was a part of me that kept planning how I was going to come home someday and take over E.L.Q." She laughed softly, as if this were some sort of game between them. "I was going to steal it right out from under your nose so you'd be proud of me. Do you remember when I was a little girl and any time I would beat you at anything -- tennis, bridge, even tic-tac-toe -- you'd say 'Good for you, Tracy. You beat me at my own game, and I'm proud of you.'"

Simon felt his stomach clench. Her voice was breaking, her heart was breaking, and Simon knew there was nothing he could do to protect her from this. Nothing he could do to protect her from her viperous family and especially from this chief snake she so obviously worshipped.

The old man stirred in his bed, moaning slightly as he struggled towards consciousness. His eyes fluttered open and for a moment, he seemed confused. Then he focused on the woman at his side, face contorting as he struggled to focus, a frown forming on his lips.

When Simon heard Tracy's voice, it was the sound of crumbling glass to him, the sound of utter and absolute loss. She sounded so happy, and he knew instinctively what a fall she was setting herself up for.

"Hi, Daddy," she said, with all the guilelessness of a pre-adolescent girl.

Edward Quartermaine blinked twice, frowned, and responded in a hoarse, gravelly voice, "Dear lord. I've died and gone to Hell."

Anyone who didn't know her well might have missed the flinch. Anyone who didn't know her well might have missed the tightness in her smile.

But Simon had studied this woman for more than two decades, knew her like he knew the periodic table, like he knew his social security number, like he knew the taste of a first kiss on a summer night. And he knew, in his soul, that her smile was too broad, that her humor too forced.

He knew without a doubt that Edward had cut her straight to the bone, and had done it intentionally.

"No, Daddy," she responded. "You're still among the living, though you gave us all quite a scare."

The old devil nodded his head. "So you figured you'd hurry in and finish the job you left undone twenty years ago?"

Tracy forced a smile, made hollow and pathetic by the fact that it fell on the gaze of a man who obviously despised her. "Daddy, don't talk like that. I just wanted to see you."

"You are not welcome here, Tracy."

"Don't upset yourself, Daddy," she said quickly, moving forward to adjust his blanket. He snapped away from her like she was some sort of monster. "Please, Daddy…I just…."

"You heard The Old Man was down, and thought you'd come back to try to weasel your way back into my will before it was too late," he said, his sour voice laced with venom. "Well, it won't work. You are no longer a member of this family, Tracy, and you won't get a penny of my money."

"I don't _want_ your money," she snapped. It was the first time Simon had heard any emotion in her voice other than fear since they'd arrived, other than the obvious love she'd just expressed to her father. "I have my own money," she added.

"That's never stopped you before. You're a greedy, self-serving witch, and you will stop at nothing to get yourself back into the family fortune." His voice was rising, and Simon could see Tracy's fear growing. The last thing they needed was for the old man to work himself into another heart attack while talking to his daughter.

"Daddy, please calm down. You just had heart surgery; you don't want to stress yourself."

"Like you care? The last time you saw me like this, you left me on the floor to fend for myself. Or have you conveniently forgotten that?"

"You were faking!" This time, there was no mistaking the anger in her voice. "You set me up--"

"You showed your true colors that day, Tracy. A snake may change his skin, but not his nature." He grinned at her, a vicious, terrifying sight Simon hoped to never see again. "Get out of my sight," he added, before slamming his hand down on the nurse's call button.

Then the old bastard began clutching his chest, making a huge show of being distressed and in pain. By the time Bobbie and Alan were in the room, along with a blonde Simon recognized from the family meeting as Alan's wife, Edward was playing it for all it was worth, moaning about the pain, demanding that "that woman" be removed. Simon stepped aside as Bobbie practically dragged Tracy from the room, followed by a furious Alan.

Simon was the last to leave. He turned one more time to look at Edward before following the others into the hall. Monica was reaching for her stethoscope, and Edward for a moment was out of her line of vision.

The son-of-a-bitch was chuckling, watching his daughter's trouble through the window with an almost giddy amusement.

At that moment, Simon made his choice. Even if Tracy had put a knife to his throat, Edward Quartermaine deserved whatever had been done to him.

They were railing against her when he made his way out to the hallway, Alan and Bobbie, calling her a trouble-maker, asking why she had to start things, did she not care about her own father? Ned was glowering, but didn't join in to the fray. He just seemed content to watch the two decimate his mother, unaware that his own daughter had just stepped off the elevator and was watching the scene with great interest.

"How could you be so vindictive, Tracy?" Alan was saying. "Don't you give a damn that the man just had heart surgery?"

"I warned you not to upset him," Bobbie added, her eyes flashing.

"I didn't say anything wrong." Tracy was protesting weakly, as if she knew it didn't matter. That her mere presence was evidence of wrong-doing in their eyes. "He…"

"He took one look at Mother," Ned said in a glum, laconic tone. "And practically screamed bloody murder. Who could blame him, right, Mommy?" This was directed at Tracy, who winced. "I mean, the last time you saw him, you pretty much had him in the same position, didn't you?"

"Only this time, he has medication," Alan added, twisting the knife.

"'Mommy'?" It was Brooke, who had moved closer in now and was staring at Tracy. "Did he just call you 'Mommy?' As in, are you his mother?" She turned to Ned, an expression of pure fury on her pretty young face. "Is this my grandmother?"

"Brooke Lynn, this is not the time or place…" Alan was moving toward her, his hands reaching for her shoulders to shoo her away like an unruly child, but she shook him off, turning her attention to Ned.

"Is it true, Dad? Is this your mother? You know, the one you told me was dead?"

"You told her I was dead?" There was no mistaking the hurt in Tracy's voice, although she kept her shoulders straight and her head high.

"Oh, don't you _dare_ try to sound injured," Brooke turned to Tracy, still oozing rage out of her pores. "Nice job making a fool of me this morning in the coffee shop. You knew exactly who I was, and you let me go on thinking you were just some friend of the family." The young woman groaned, casting a disgusted expression at her father and grandmother. "I suppose lying is just another one of those Quartermaine family traits that makes me wish I was fucking adopted!" She turned on her heels, storming away from the group.

Ned let out a frustrated groan, casting an angry look in Tracy's direction before chasing after his daughter, who'd gotten on the elevator and closed it before he could enter. "Nice work, Mother," he said before running for the stairwell.

Alan turned on his sister, his wide face red with anger. "Jesus Christ, Tracy. Is it even conceivable that you can come into a room for ten seconds without all hell breaking loose?"

"Now wait a minute," Simon said. "It's not Tracy's fault Ned lied to his daughter. And as for…" He turned to the window, where Edward was basking in the attention his daughter-in-law was giving him. "_Him_... Tracy didn't do a damned thing to provoke him. I heard the entire conversation from the door. She was nothing but gentle and kind to him, a loving daughter, and he started in on her the moment he woke up. He wasn't in any pain--he just did it to get her out of the room."

Alan began to comment, but Tracy pushed him aside, a look of outrage on her face as she faced Simon. "You were _eavesdropping_ on my conversation?" Her eyes flashed with fury, her hands were clenched at his side.

"Tracy, I walked into the room with you…" Simon began, but she cut him off, her instincts obviously finding a safe target for the rage she didn't want to aim at more deserving victims.

"You had no _right_ intruding on my private conversation. Do you think this--" She waved her arms around, indicating the entire situation they suddenly found themselves thrust into. "Do you think this entitles you to special privileges? Special rights?"

"Tracy, I just thought--"

"You thought you'd ride in on your white horse and protect Tracy from her crazy family. That you'd be a hero." She was fuming now. Her compact frame barely seemed able to contain the rage she was carrying. She flashed him a cruel smile, the kind he'd only seen rarely, the kind that meant she was going in for the kill. "What, Simon?" Her voice was soft, a brutal mockery of seduction. "Did you think I'd be so grateful to you that I'd finally go to bed with you? Did you think you could make everything better, maybe get a couple of rolls in the sack out of it?"

"You know that's not what this is about, Tracy," he said, his own anger rising now, although he kept his voice calm and low. Alan and Bobbie had pulled away from them. Apparently, two decades had not dulled their senses of self-preservation when it came to Tracy's temper. "You're my friend. I saw what he did, what he did to you." He turned to Alan. "The son-of-a-bitch set her up, and she's so desperate to regain his love that she's letting him."

"How dare you talk about my father that way!" Tracy gasped, as if she hadn't seen what had happened, as if she really believed she was the bad guy here. "You have no right."

Simon stared at her, wondering for the first time if there really was something wrong with Tracy. How could she look at Edward, watch how he treated her, and still defend him so fiercely? "You did nothing wrong, sweetheart," he said, lowering his voice, trying for reason--although he suspected that rationality and reason were foreign concepts in the world of the Quartermaines. "That psychotic old man is playing these people, and you're letting the bastard get away with it."

He didn't see it coming. Her open hand slammed across his face full force, sending him reeling from the shock of it.

"Don't you _ever_ speak a word against my father again," she snarled at him, her eyes flashing as she let the full force of her words fall on him. Then, with a disgusted snort at Simon and her brother, who was staying out of it, Tracy shook her head in frustration. She pushed past Simon towards the elevator, muttering under her breath, "_God_, I need a drink!"

Alan and Bobbie just shrugged, saying nothing in response to this tantrum.

As if they expected it.

As if this was Tracy Quartermaine in their eyes.

Alan gave him an almost sympathetic look before going back into Edward's hospital room, and Bobbie just returned to her nurse's station without a word.

It was like they were relieved to see her go, and didn't really give a damn what her emotional state was as long as they didn't have to deal with it.

Simon stared at the empty hallway surrounding him, feeling like he'd just followed a white rabbit down its hole. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and headed to the elevator to try to find Tracy. Before he got there, though, a hand on his arm stopped him.

He looked up to see a thin man with spiky silver hair grinning at him. "A word of advice, amigo? If that fiery beauty who just stormed outta here is who I think she is---" He grinned. "And I think she definitely _is_ who I think she is... Well, you'd be much better off if you gave her a little time to cool down before you go after her."

"Oh, let me guess--you have a twenty year old grudge against Tracy Quartermaine, too?" Simon was getting pretty fed up with all these people coming out of the woodwork to crucify Tracy as if she hadn't changed a bit in two decades.

"Actually, I have no grudge against the fair Ms. Quartermaine, although I'm sure had I had more contact with her when I knew her, we would have found something to hate about each other." He waggled his eyes. "She's always been of the tempestuous variety, although I'm beginning to think you're becoming aware of that fact."

Simon lifted a single hand to his temple, rubbing at the headache that was beginning to pound.

"Oh, yeah, you're figuring it out," the man said with a laugh. "I suppose I ought to introduce myself, since I'm the guy who's gonna be taking you down the street for the drink you so desperately need." He reached out a hand to shake. "Luke Spencer."

Simon took his hand somewhat reluctantly. "Simon Fullerton. And I don't need a drink. I need to find Tracy and straighten this out."

Luke Spencer laughed, a sound rife with experience. "Trust me, compadre. If you're going to be dealing with the Q-maines, especially Tracy…" He shook his head in sympathy. "You're gonna need a drink."

_Coming in Chapter Thirteen: One Story, Two Audiences_


	13. One Story, Two Audiences

**_Chapter Thirteen: One Story, Two Audiences_ **

She paced the hallway, cell phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the sound of the phone ringing. "Damn it, Annabeth, be home. Be home," she muttered into the phone. She'd tried twice now, snapping the phone shut furiously without leaving a message each time she got the answering machine. What time was it in Seattle, anyway? Three hours earlier—what was that? 8:30 in the morning. Where the _fuck_ could Annabeth be at 8:30 in the morning, she fumed as the phone kept ringing. There was a period while the recorder reset where the phone would just ring off the hook, as it was doing right now, and Tracy would just listen to it ringing, as she doing right now, getting angrier and angrier. She finally shut the phone, severing the connection, tossing her head back in outrage.

It was so typical. So damned typical. Simon, Annabeth. The minute the truth came out, who were they? Where were they?

She should have known better. She should have known better than to trust them, should have known better than to think she could have friends she could count on. Daddy was right. Daddy was always right.

She opened her cell phone again, pushing the redial for Annabeth's home number. The machine picked up on the first ring, and Tracy didn't hang up this time. She waited impatiently for Annabeth's message to end in a single, long tone, and spoke. "Where the _hell_ are you at 8:30 in the morning? What the hell kind of sponsor are you? Why don't you join the 21st century and get a damned cell phone like the rest of us?" She snapped the phone shut and shoved it into her purse.

Looking around her, she found a bulletin board with a directory of departments. The hospital had changed a lot in twenty years, and she didn't know her way around any more. She scanned the directory, not knowing what she was looking for until her eyes stopped on the words "physical therapy." She made a quick note of the location and, realizing it was just down the hall, turned to go there.

A quick peek in the door confirmed her suspicions. The room, in addition to an examination area, contained a treadmill, exercise bicycle, and rowing machine. Tracy nodded in relief, reaching in the doorway to turn on the light before removing her light over-jacket and draping it over her arm, so that she was just wearing her sleeveless tank. Just as she was about to enter, though, a hand on her bare forearm stopped her. She pivoted to see a young brunette woman in scrubs right behind her. The girl was very pretty, with pale skin and large eyes, but her expression was firm.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she said gently. "This room is for physical therapy patients only."

Tracy drew in a long breath, somehow finding the strength to control her immediate response. "There's _nobody in there_," she said through gritted teeth.

"I understand that, ma'am, but—"

"I just need to use the treadmill for a couple of minutes," Tracy interrupted. "I won't touch anything else."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"No, you aren't sorry, but that's beside the point." Tracy lifted her right hand, staving off the young woman's protests. "Look, Miss—"

"Webber. _Nurse_ Elizabeth Webber."

"Look, _Nurse_ Elizabeth Webber. I know you're just doing your job. I understand that. But what I need you to understand is this. If I don't get on the phone with my sponsor, or on that treadmill for about 20 minutes, what I'm going to do is get on a bar stool across the street and drink myself into a coma." She paused to catch her breath, noting but not affected by the young woman's startled reaction. Before Nurse Webber could speak, Tracy continued. "I realize you have liability issues. I will sign whatever waiver you need me to sign. Believe me, I have less than no interest than ever suing this hospital. I have no interest in having anything _whatsoever_ to do with this hospital. What I _do_ have an interest in is that treadmill in there, which is the answer to this nagging little problem I have right now, which is how do I resist my current, overwhelming desire to destroy six years of sobriety in one afternoon?" She stopped for now, suddenly out of wind, suddenly out of energy. It occurred to her to ask herself why she cared. She only phoned in her AA membership anyway, remember? She was sober for practical reasons, not moral ones—another DUI, another near-scandal involving her would be lethal to Freedom Energies' public relations.

But it wasn't Tracy Walker fighting for sobriety right now. It was Tracy Quartermaine. And everybody in Port Charles who knew Tracy Quartermaine knew she drank like a fish. Knew she was and had always been a heavy drinker, probably an alcoholic.

Tracy Walker admitted once every week to a room full of people that she was an alcoholic, even if a hidden part of her didn't believe it. Tracy Quartermaine believed it with all of her heart, but didn't give the slightest damn about it at the moment.

"Listen, Ms…."

"Walker," Tracy said.

The nurse's expression had softened, her eyes gentle for the first time. "Let me take a look at the schedule and see what I can do." She stepped into the physical therapy room, followed by Tracy, and headed over to where a clipboard hung from a nail on the wall. Flipping it open, she began to nod. "Well, the bulk of the appointments are scheduled for early morning and mid-afternoon." She looked up and smiled. "You've timed it perfectly. I can give you a half an hour, if you want it."

"Duh…" Tracy said, then caught herself. "Sorry….thank you," she amended.

"No problem. I understand how these things are," she said, not lifting her eyes from the paper she was writing on. "What was your full name?"

"Tracy Walker."

The young woman scrawled the name on the paper, and then looked up, placing the clipboard back on the wall. "I've got you scheduled for thirty minutes on the treadmill, Tracy. Do you know how to use the machine?"

Tracy nodded gratefully.

"Okay then, if you can just make sure the machine is shut off when you're done and the lights are out…."

"And the door closed behind me, yeah," Tracy murmured as she headed to the treadmill. "I…I really appreciate this, Nurse."

"I understand." The young woman paused at the door. "Um, when's your next AA meeting?" she asked.

Tracy turned, sighing. "Thursday. Back in Seattle," she clarified.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "And are you going to _be_ in Seattle on Thursday?"

That got a short, bitter laugh. "I don't know _who_ I'm going to be on Thursday, much less where."

If Elizabeth had any response to that remark, it didn't show on her face or in her voice. She just nodded, graciously. "Here's what I can do for you. I know the hospital hosts AA meetings weekly. I can see when the next local group is meeting—they are open to visitors, and well…" She breathed in deeply before continuing. "You look like you might need it before Thursday.

Tracy shook her head. "You don't have to do that. I can control it—just a few hard minutes on that treadmill, and I'm good to go." She was lying, of course. Tracy didn't know how all the exercise in the world was going to keep her sober through this ordeal. She was kicking herself for even coming, kicking herself for thinking it might be different this time, that he might be different this time.

The nurse nodded, but said, "Well, I'll bring the list of meetings anyway. Just in case you change your mind." And without waiting for a response, the young woman was gone, leaving Tracy alone for the first time in almost 24 hours.

Tracy lay her purse and over-jacket on the table by the examining area and got on the treadmill, leaning over to check out the settings. Her glasses were in her purse, so she had to squint with the unfamiliar settings of this machine. Still, it only took a moment to get familiarized and have the machine working fine.

She set it for a hard walk, no warm-up, and started moving. She felt her legs burning—she'd missed her workout yesterday because of the party, and then there was the cramped cross-country redeye to New York, not to mention the stress of seeing her family again. Part of her wanted to slow down, knowing she could cramp up or even injure herself at this pace, but she squashed that part of herself down. She wanted the discomfort, the physical pain, to mask all the roiling emotions that were pushing at her now.

Every time her father's face appeared in her mind, or her son's, or her mother's, or…or….

She pushed harder. Work it out in the legs, Tracy, in the abdomen. Work it out in the body, clear it out of your head, sweat it out of your mind. Keep focused. Just walk, push harder, keep it up.

Push yourself, Tracy.

Don't slow down. Don't give up.

Don't look back to see them biting at your heels.

If you stop, you die.

She felt the tears on her face, felt the burning humiliation of them. Tracy hated tears, on herself and on other people. They were a sign of weakness, a sign that the person who shed those tears had no clue how to control themselves. She suspected on some level that her attitude was quite dysfunctional, but that didn't change the hidden disgust she felt during AA meetings, watching people bare their souls, tears streaming down fat, or wrinkled, or hollowed faces as petty grievances were aired before perfect strangers who didn't even know their last names.

Tracy sometimes made things up at the meetings. Tracy sometimes just lied outright, weaving incredible stories of verbal abuse and abandonment, of cruel fathers and impotent mothers, never caring about the violation of trust she was committing with these people.

Anything was better than their tears, even her own fictitious tales about the horrors of her childhood.

The sweat was beginning to come. The pain was beginning to come. It forced her to focus, forced her out of her mind, into her muscles. She wondered how strong her heart was….how ironic would it be if she gave herself a heart attack, here at General Hospital? She would have laughed, but laughter required more energy than she was willing to spare, so she just pushed harder.

She didn't hear the door open, didn't even notice the young woman enter until she was standing right in front of her, scaring the hell out of her. "Brooke Lynn!" she gasped, not slowing her pace.

Her granddaughter stood before her, arms folded across her chest, just staring—no, _glaring_ at her. "This room is for PT patients," she said curtly.

Tracy nodded toward the schedule on the wall, breathing too hard to talk.

Brooke walked over to the clipboard, picked it up and flipped through to the current page. "Tracy _Walker_?" She rolled her eyes. "How appropriate."

"Jeese," Tracy muttered, slowing her pace to catch her breath. "Look, kid, I'm in the middle of something here. Why don't you give me twenty minutes to clear my head, and then, I promise you, you can have your pound of flesh with the rest of them." She didn't wait for a response, just started pumping at the treadmill again.

"I _have_ a name. It's Brooke." Brooke stared at her a moment longer, then said, "I saw you in the hall. Where is your cell phone?"

"In my purse, why?" Tracy looked up to see the girl march over to her purse, take out the phone and shut it off.

"You can't use these things in the hospital, okay? You could interfere with the machinery," she said before putting it back in Tracy's purse.

"Wow! Why didn't I think of that when I was in Daddy's room?" Tracy knew the kid had done nothing to deserve her ire, but she had tried asking, and the girl just wouldn't go away. "Then there would be witnesses to my evil, and I'd get into Hell all that faster." She rolled her eyes, but continued her brisk pace on the treadmill.

Brooke shook her head, her lips parted slightly in disgust. "You think I care what my asshole family thinks of you?" When Tracy didn't respond, the girl continued. "I could care _less_ what they think. I'm here under protest, under Dad's house arrest, and frankly I don't care if they all have heart attacks and die." She hesitated, her angry façade faltering for just a moment before she got on the exercise bike and began slowly pedaling. "Why didn't you tell me who you were in the coffee house this morning?" she asked in a softer voice, not meeting Tracy's eyes. "Why did you let me make a fool of myself? You knew who I was. I told you I was Ned's daughter. Hell, I even asked if you knew my grandmother." She pedaled faster, her voice growing harder with the exertion. "Not like I didn't give you a lot openings to jump in there."

Tracy sighed, adjusting the pace on the treadmill to a slow walk. Since the girl obviously wasn't going away until she got answers, it seemed wise to just give them to her. "Look, you didn't make a fool of yourself. You were polite and charming and…" She leaned over, resting her head on her arms as she leaned against the console, still walking slowly as she did. After a moment, she straightened. "I'm sorry," she said plainly. "Two seconds before I met you, I didn't know I _had_ a grand-daughter. It knocked the wind out of me, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what Ned had told you about me, didn't know what horror stories they told about the Evil Witch Tracy at Halloween. For all I knew, you could have thought I was a cross between Cruella da Ville and Lizzie Borden." She shook her head, tired of walking, but not able to stop just yet. "I'm sorry."

"When I was nine or ten, I came and stayed with Dad for a while. I was fighting with Mom, and I just couldn't handle it anymore. I asked Great-Grandma Lila about you." Brooke smiled slightly. "She said I had a lot of your best qualities, and that I reminded her of you." The young woman waited for a reaction from her grandmother; when Tracy didn't give her one, she continued. "I've heard the rumors, you know? It's hard not to in this pit of vipers. But I never believed them. Grandma Lila loved you, and she wouldn't if you'd really done what they said you did." Again, no reaction from Tracy, who was still walking at her slow pace, her body taut and defensive. Brooke pressed on. "What…did you do?"

Tracy sighed, her heart sinking. A subtle hint, she might have ignored. A broad, generic question could have been side-stepped. But how could she look at her own grandkid and….? "Oh, god, Brooke. That was a million years ago."

"Judging by the reaction you got from the family, it was ten seconds ago," Brooke corrected. "Come on--I've heard the rumors. Don't you want _somebody_ in the family to hear your side of the story, after all these years?"

"Oh, kid. Trust me when I tell you that nobody wants to hear my side of the story."

"I do."

Perhaps it was the simplicity of her words, or the fact that nobody demanded her truth in years. Perhaps it was her honesty, or her attitude, or the fact that in right light she reminded Tracy a little of her younger self. Whatever it was, to her surprise, Tracy found herself speaking. "I had been feuding with Alan. The usual things--money, power, jockeying for position. Daddy got tired of it, blamed me for all of it, and decided to test my loyalty." She grinned darkly. "Obviously, I failed."

"Obviously." Brooke grinned back, her accent evident even in those three short syllables. "So. Did you really try to off the old man?"

"Not in so many words, no," Tracy responded carefully. "It's hard to find the black and white of it, you know? He faked a heart attack. He was in no actual danger. So technically, my actions weren't wrong at all." She bit her lower lip, lowering her eyes as she slowed the treadmill down to a crawl, then just turned the damned thing off. "But I didn't know that. I thought my father was having a heart attack. I thought…I can't remember what I thought at the time, really. So many years have passed, and I can't sort out the real memories from memories of the nightmares I've had about that night. I've relived it a million times, but it's a little different each time, you know?"

The girl nodded, no longer pedaling, just watching Tracy's face, studying her expression.

"I brought him his medicine like he asked, but I stopped short of actually giving it to him. I put it on the table, right on top of the new will he'd shown me earlier that night--the one cutting me out completely, disinheriting me and banishing me from the family." She stopped, her voice cracking. It had been over two decades since she'd spoken about this aloud, and the words felt like razors in her throat. It took a moment to catch her breath, but Brooke didn't hurry her.

Tracy didn't hear the door behind her open, but Brooke did. Brooke saw her father enter, but made no move to alert her grandmother to his presence. Instead, she stepped up her questioning. "Grandmother, did you try to kill Edward?"

"No. No, because--God, this is going to sound insane--" Tracy fought for control of her voice, of her body which threatened to sag from a combination of emotion and exhaustion. "Baby, I didn't think he _could_ die. I know it's nuts, but Daddy was…oh, my god, Daddy was so strong. He was so intimidating. It never really hit me that he could die. It never occurred to me that I could hurt him--because--because I was nothing. I was just Tracy, the bad seed, the one nobody took seriously, the one who couldn't make a marriage work." She laughed, a harsh ugly sound. "The only thing I knew was that, no matter what happened, I couldn't let him see me crawl. Daddy didn't like people who were weak. Daddy didn't like people who crawled, and he was trying to make me crawl. He was trying to make me buckle, and I wouldn't do it." Her lips spread across her teeth slightly. "I made _him_ crawl. I beat him at his own game. It's what he taught me to do, what he wanted me to do."

"Wow," Brooke said. "Okay."

"Yeah. The current word for that sort of father-daughter relationship is dysfunctional," Tracy admitted. "When he finally came to--oh, and he laughed at me--there was no winning. If I said I was calling an ambulance, then I admitted I didn't know he was faking. If I said I thought he was faking, why call an ambulance?" She was shrugging. "There was no coming back from it."

"Is that why you disappeared?" Brooke was watching her father's reactions as much as her grandmother's, realizing that she had a perfect opportunity to ask for her father what he'd never ask for himself. "Is that why you never came back, because there was no coming back from what happened between you and Great-Grandfather?"

"When Daddy disowned me," Tracy continued. "Mother intervened on my behalf. She got Daddy to give me two million, but he put a stipulation on it. I could only spend it on my husband's political career. Now my husband didn't want to be married to me any more than I wanted to be married to him. We split the money and divorced as soon as we hit Albany. I hopped a transatlantic flight out of LaGuardia, started drinking in the terminal bar, and by the time I sobered up, six weeks had passed and I was in bed with an Italian guy whose name I couldn't remember." She sighed at the memory. "All I knew is I wanted my family back, but I couldn't crawl. I couldn't come back, because the only way back was on my knees, and I wasn't going to do that. Daddy would never forgive me, would hate me even more if I crawled than if I came back with guns blazing." She shrugged. "I figured the only way I'd ever get back into the family was to make a success of myself. So I decided to take what was left of my money and go into business. My Italian friend had one of those old-fashioned globes, you know? So I spun it, telling myself that wherever it stopped I'd make my fortune." There was a hesitation, then Tracy laughed. "It landed in Patagonia, South America. I said the hell with that, ran my finger up to North America and landed in Seattle. I've been there ever since."

"Trying to make enough money to come back?"

"Trying to make enough money to forget," Tracy said softly. "Somewhere along the line, I got it into my head I could never come back, no matter how much I turned my life around. It made sense, really. Nobody here would ever see me differently. I changed my name, I changed my life. I started from scratch, and once I had made sure Ned was financially secure, tried to forget about this entire life I used to live."

Brooke was watching her father's face during this entire exchange. He looked maybe ten years old, hurt and lost and abandoned. He looked like he wanted to cry. She took a deep breath and asked the question she knew he wanted an answer to, the one thing that had shaped his entire life, the thing that affected every relationship he had--especially his relationship with Brooke herself. "Grandmother, why did you abandon Dad? You said you had a million dollars and a plan. Why didn't you just take him with you? You knew what Great-Grandfather was like. How could you leave your son with someone like that?"

"Oh, wow. Oh…." Tracy breathed out hard, as if frank line of questioning had knocked the wind out of her. "Baby, I have asked myself those questions a million times, in a million different ways. And the truth is…" She shook her head. "I screwed up. I made a mistake. I thought he would be better off with the family, that he might have a chance to do right where I failed. I was young, and terrified, and stupid beyond all belief. I thought money was more important than anything I could give him. I had Mother's assurance that she would protect him, and my mother was a better mom than I could have dreamed of being." She sighed, lowering her eyes, unable to meet her grand-daughter's gaze. "I threw away the best thing, the only good thing I ever did in my life, because I was too afraid of the responsibility, too afraid of the burden of being a full-time mother to him." She closed her eyes, the tears coming down her face. "By the time I realized the mistake I'd made, it was too late. The damage had been done. I'd lost my son, and I knew I'd never have him back. Maybe I never had him at all--I was never a good mother, Brooke. That accusation was true. I was the worst mother that ever lived."

"That's not true." Ned's voice from behind her visibly shook Tracy.

"Dear god! How long has he been listening?" she said angrily to her grand-daughter.

"Long enough. Brooke, can I have some time alone with my mother?"

Brooke nodded, and left before Tracy could stop her. She turned to her son, suddenly terrified to utter a word.

Ned just looked at her, a sad, awkward expression on his face. "I guess we need to talk, huh?"

_Coming in Chapter Fourteen: The Care and Feeding of a Quartermaine_


	14. The Care and Feeding of a Qmaine

**_Chapter Fourteen: The Care and Feeding of a Quartermaine_ **

"And of course, Old Man Ed was never one to let bygones be bygones. He came back from that island with a vengeance, and proceeded to rip that company right out of the hands of Barrett and his little mongrel Hornsby. I wasn't in town at that time, but I got it straight from my cousin Jenny. It was a blood-bath. Nobody dared cross him after that—he had always been a carnivorous old coot, but that victory over the Cartel just…well, it turned what little soul he ever had to granite."

Simon stared at the guy in front of him. Luke Spencer, by his own admission, was sort of a seedy character. But he knew his beer and he damned well knew his history. The place they'd gone to, something called Jake's, was of the "manly yet devoid of charm" variety, complete with cheesy bartender in loud shirts checking out the (sparse) female action.

"He sounds like a charmer," Simon said sullenly, taking another sip of his beer. He'd never been one to drink in the daytime, but the last few hours of intensive Quartermaine 101 had been more than a little trying. "A real piece of work," he added. "That number he did this morning on his own daughter was…well, yeah."

"You can never overestimate the amount of cruelty one Qmaine is capable of inflicting on another member of the family. And before you start going all Quixote on me, my good scholar, let me tell you this." Luke downed the last of his beer and tapped the bar for another. "In her day, Princess Tracy was the hands-down champ of the dirty deal, the double deal, and the sneaky underhanded schemes. That's why she and the old man clash so much—she's his spiritual heir. Anything he could do, she could do meaner, smarter, and sneakier. Believe me, Tracy Quartermaine can handle herself."

Simon shook his head, partly to clear it from the exhaustion-fueled jet lag, partly in response to Spencer's accusation. "I've known this woman for twenty-four years, and nothing I've ever seen has led me to suspect that she could be like that man. She's tough, a workaholic, a perfectionist. She doesn't let anybody phone in their jobs, mostly herself. But vindictive? Cruel? Not my Tracy."

"Well, _your Tracy _used to be _their Tracy_, and believe you me, Young Hawking, that woman was no angel."

"How did you say you knew her again?"

"I used to manage a club for her weasel of an ex-husband, Mitch Williams. I didn't have that much contact with her, but everyone who worked for Mitch knew it was best to steer clear of the Missus." He waggled an eyebrow. "Don't get me wrong—we were happy to look, if you know what I mean. But touch?" His laugh was sardonic. "Oh, not Eddie Q's baby girl! Nobody was that crazy or suicidal."

"Do you know what happened to get her banished?" He knew it would be near-impossible, given the time and the prejudice, to get a straight-forward answer from any member of Tracy's family; maybe this guy could help.

Spencer accepted his beer from the mustachioed bartender with a "thanks, Coleman," took a deep swallow, and leaned forward. "Well, rumor is that the old man got tired of his spoiled brats fighting amongst themselves and decided to put Tracy to a test of loyalty. Why just Tracy and not Alan—well, you'll have to take that up with The Old Man himself. Anyway, EddieQ proceeds to get her all worked up, tells her he's going to cut her off completely if she doesn't stop trying to prove that Monica and Alan's son was not fathered by Alan. Apparently, Monica was a bit of a free agent in her younger days, and a few of the field goals may have been kicked by the visiting team, if you get my drift."

"Unfortunately," Simon nodded.

"Well, The Old Man sets it up to make Tracy think she's about to be cut off—caput, finished, out of the castle. From what I heard, he even had a new will drawn up, completely bankrupting the girl. And then, just as it's getting juicy…" He slammed his mug of beer down hard on the bar. "BAM! The old guy clutches his chest, falls to the floor, and starts yelling he's having a heart attack. By all accounts, Tracy did what he told her to do—she went get his medicine." Luke grinned from ear to ear. "Now here's the good part, Einstein. My sources, reliable all, tell me that when the Princess gets back, _she doesn't give him the pills_. She puts them just out of reach and won't budge, no matter how he begs." He nodded his head in approval. "She has a pair of brass ones, that Tracy Quartermaine, no doubt. Anyway, the old guy stops moving, apparently dead. Baby Girl snaps out of it, tries to call for help, and he nails her. Accuses her of attempted murder, slams her out of the will, and there you are. Bye-bye, Princess Quartermaine." He sighed. "I have to admit, I hated seeing her go. She was definitely one of my favorite Quartermaines. She was just as vile, vindictive, and nutty as the rest of them, but much prettier to look at, with a hell of a lot more style." He winked at Simon. "Thanks for bringing her back into town. This should get interesting."

"We have no intention of staying," Simon said coldly, meaning it. They were here to resolve Tracy's issues with her father, or at least to – he didn't know – get some closure for her. Get whatever this was out of her subconscious so that she could go back to the life she created. The _sane_ life. The functional life. The life free of back-stabbing family members, lunatic fathers, conspiracies and jockeying for position….

Simon had a flashback to when he and Tracy first met. He'd done the first consulting gig for Freedom as a favor to his department head, and politely turned down the company's offer of a full-time position. He remembered his reasoning clearly—it was the early 80s, and as a career academic, his limited knowledge of the corporate world came from shows like _Dallas_ and _Dynasty_. He had no desire to be part of a place that, to his naïve point of view, seemed even more cut-throat and stressful than the world of academia.

She'd come to his school, the CEO herself, found him in the Student Union having lunch with some of his grad students. She seemed so out of place there, yet she still managed to fit right in. She had by her own admission lost all interest in academics once she got her bachelor's degree. She knew nothing of chemistry, but wanted to learn because of her business. She needed someone on her staff who was knowledgeable, honest, and had a backbone.

Someone like Simon.

Tracy Walker, by her own admission, was all about business. And success. And as the grad students finished up their meals and said their goodbyes, Tracy Walker set about explaining to Simon her philosophy of business. Her goals for Freedom.

It all made sense now, in context, with the knowledge of how Edward ran his company and his family fresh in his mind.

Freedom was to be a company that valued its employees, that valued innovation, that dealt straight but played hard, to win. Freedom was to be about innovation, not stagnation. Freedom, most of all, was to be about hope. Her hope was to get filthy rich, she'd joked. But the hope of Freedom Energies was to find a new way, to get beyond the trap the world was in, to break free not only from the dependence on current energy sources but from the iron grip of the companies who had a strangle-hold on the lives of every person in the industrialized world.

Simon wondered now how much of that desire had been for business, and how much was her own desire for freedom from Edward's iron grip? Back then, though, he knew nothing of this.

She'd been passionate and honest and unbearably beautiful. A perfect salesperson for Freedom and the perfect bait to lure him in.

He'd signed on the spot.

"We've got business back in Seattle," Simon continued, aware of the eyes on him. Spencer was trying to figure him out, no doubt trying to unravel the complex and somewhat strained relationship he had with Tracy.

"A word of advice, compadre," Luke said darkly. "Whatever business venture you have with Tracy, you might want to take steps to protect it. Old Man Quartermaine has made a career of destroying lives. Now that Tracy has reappeared from the dead, mark my words. He will stop at nothing to muck up any chance of happiness she has."

Simon's mind turned immediately to the IPO. He had no difficulty seeing the old devil using any sneaky, underhanded trick in the book to ruin things for Tracy. His stomach clenched in knots. He checked his watch—11:30. Quick math—it was 8:30 in Seattle. "Excuse me."

He pulled out his phone and hit the speed-dial. After a moment, he said, "Chelsea, it's me. Yeah. Yeah, well, she's seen him. Bloodbath, but I'll explain that later. No, really, she's fine." To Luke, he mouthed, 'Tracy's secretary' before continuing into the phone. "Listen, Chelsea, I need you to do some research. This is top priority; farm out whatever's on your desk. I want you and you alone on this project. Yeah? Yeah, I'm serious. Give that to Nancy. Okay. What I need from you is research on Edward Quartermaine, ELQ Corp., and their acquisitions. Check everything, every member of his family (including bastard children and grandchildren). Look up DBAs and subsidiaries, the board, upper management, lower management. Hell, if the janitor has an Ameriquest account with fifty bucks in it, I want to know." He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know it's unethical. I need to know buying patterns, and I need to know any avenue Tracy's father could use to try to fuck up this IPO." He waited as Chelsea responded. And when he answered, his voice was low and sad. "Yeah, kid. It's that bad. I know, I feel rotten, too. She's gonna get through it; we'll get her there. But if the vindictive old coot destroys Freedom, she'll never bounce back. Not to mention it would pretty much wipe the rest of us out, too. What? No, I haven't. Yeah. Yeah, I'll call her back once I find out what's going on. Look, keep me up to date on the ELQ thing. I have to turn off my cell phone in the hospital, but I'll check my messages frequently. Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Chelsea. I'll give her your love."

"Everything ok?" Luke said as Simon grabbed his jacket, pulled out his wallet and left a $20 on the bar to cover the drinks.

"Tracy left a pretty frantic message on the answering machine of a mutual friend. She's not able to reach her, and she's worried." Simon slipped on his jacket. "I'm going to check on her. If she hasn't had enough time to cool off, she'll just have to make the time."

Luke lifted his glass in toast. "Here's to you, Dr. Braveheart. Go claim your Quartermaine!"

_Coming in Chapter Fifteen: Faded Pictures and Letters Home_


	15. Faded Pictures and Letters Home

**_Chapter Fifteen: Faded Pictures and Letters Home_**

"I was coming home from a business meeting," she said, leaning back into the pew. They'd found themselves in the chapel, having decided mutually that a physical therapy exercise room was not the place for a meaningful reunion. And now, for some reason she could not fathom, Tracy found herself pouring out the story of how she'd stopped drinking. Oh, yeah. Because he'd offered her a drink, let's discuss it over drinks, how 'bout I buy you a drink and we can talk this out? How many expressions in her life pushed at those buttons, she wondered. But he had understood, her son, and had brought her here, to this lovely place with the burning candles everywhere. It was peaceful and safe, and she found herself wanting to tell him this truth. "I wasn't drunk, really, but I was comfortable. It was Seattle, so of course it was drizzly and a little foggy. My condo is in a rather secluded area of town, and there's this steep little road that leads up to the development. Anyway, this other car lost control and bam, there went my last six payments on the Beemer." She smiled, forced, at him.

"Were you booked on DUI?"

"Well, I didn't cause the accident, first off, and second, the other party wasn't injured at all. I, on the other hand, had three cracked ribs, a broken collarbone, a knee that will never be right again, and a totaled luxury car. One of the paramedics, bless his observant little soul, noticed I was slurring my words slightly and did a breath test on me. One-point-five over the legal limit." She sighed. "Many, many legal complications later, I was sentenced to community service and mandatory AA meetings. Thank god they didn't force me into rehab, or my company would have been destroyed. As it was, I had to become Miss Model of Sobriety. I was the poster child for chemical abstinence, and it worked. My business associates commended me for it while they had their three-martini lunches, and I got a reputation of being a straight-shooter who wasn't afraid of change." She grinned at his surprised expression. "Hard to imagine, isn't it? Anyway, when my sentence was completed, I decided to keep attending the meetings. It's a great place to network—you'd be amazed how many movers and shakers go to these things." She shrugged. "Besides…well…"

"You wanted to stay sober?" he supplied.

"I like knowing where I'm going to wake up," she admitted. "I like feeling I have some control, at least over my own actions."

Ned nodded. "When Lois and I divorced—that's Brooke's mom—I just drank myself into the ground. I had lost everything, and I still had to go to work and see her. We run a record label together—L&B—and well…." He sighed. "It's so easy just to get lost in that bottle, isn't it?"

"Yeah." She wanted to reach out to him, maybe take his hand, or stroke his bangs from his forehead. She wanted to pull him into her arms and hold on for dear life. But she sat there, waiting for a chance, waiting for a sign that maybe…

"Grandmother called a little while back," Ned said, changing the subject. "She wanted to know how Edward was doing, and she wanted to invite you and Simon over for breakfast tomorrow morning."

Tracy's eyes grew wide. "I didn't tell her about Daddy, honestly, Ned," she began, but stopped when Ned started chuckling.

"Alan is still laboring under the delusion that he can hide things from Grandmother. She told me she'd read about it on her cell phone and made a point of telling me you didn't spill the beans." He laughed again. "She's quite the lady. Wants you guys there at ten, which should clear the house of all negative forces. It'll just be Grandmother, the two of you, me, and Brooke. If you're interested," he added.

Tracy nodded, thrilled with the invitation. "Speaking of Brooke--she told me she was under house arrest? What's that all about?"

"My daughter, the drama queen," Ned chuckled. "She was getting into trouble in school. Nothing serious, just cutting class and forging signatures." He looked pointedly at his mother. "You _do_ remember that sort of thing, don't you, Mother?"

"Are you talking about when I was doing them, or when you were doing them?"

He laughed. "Both, really. Anyway, Brooke and Lois were at each other's throats about how they wanted Brooke's career to go—"

"Her _career_?"

"Musical." The pride in his eyes was apparent. "She's a hell of a talented little singer, that daughter of mine. But she wants to go in one direction, and it's the exact opposite direction that Lois wants her to go in. So when she got busted for being in a bar with a fake ID, I decided it might be a good idea to get involved." He leaned back, pulling one foot up onto the pew under his knee before continuing. "I brought her to live with me for the rest of the semester. Private tutors, and she had to get a part-time job. She has to pass the curriculum set by her regular school, plus additional projects set by her tutors. She has voice lessons and piano lessons and composition lessons."

"Wow! Isn't that a bit much to throw at a teenage girl?" Tracy thought back to her own teenaged years, wondering how bitter she would have been at an arrangement like that. "When is she supposed to have fun?"

"It's not as bad as all that. She has friends, and she has her weekends off. I just wanted her to know that she wasn't going to throw away her life just so that she could get into clubs and hear her favorite singers perform." He grinned. "Besides, the voice and piano and composition? That was for her, to sweeten the pot. She lives music, Mother. Breathes it. And she knows that if she wants the voice lessons, she has to do the geometry. If she wants piano, she'd better write that term paper."

"And the job? Dear god, Ned, a coffee shop? Surely there would have been something at ELQ—"

"The coffee shop was for Lois. I'd actually suggested ELQ, and well—" He scratched his head, chagrined. "She didn't want her kid spending any time in that den of thieves. Her words. Lois and I—we couldn't make it, Mom. Grandfather didn't approve of her background, and most of the family thought she was either trash, a gold-digger, or both. Our marriage couldn't survive the pressure. I can understand why she wouldn't want Brooke exposed to the family in that way, so I caved. The hospital coffee shop was a compromise—Alan and Monica were there, as well as Emily, so I knew there'd be somebody to check up on her. But she would also be exposed to enough non-Quartermaine people to help her develop her social skills, as well as develop a little responsibility."

Tracy smiled at him, amazed. How in hell had her son learned to be a good parent? Who had been his role model? Certainly not her. Definitely not Edward. Maybe Alan? She wondered, but didn't ask. It didn't feel appropriate to ask, so she just said in a soft, amazed tone, "You sound like a wonderful father."

"Well, not if you ask Brooke."

They both laughed, and for a moment, they were silent. Then the silence grew, and it became awkward. After another length of silence, the awkwardness grew to pain, and Tracy struggled for something to say. "I…um…" She bit her lower lip, then just plunged ahead. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for coming here unannounced, sorry for throwing a huge wrench into an already difficult situation. I'm sorry I upset Daddy this morning, and I'm sorry I upset Brooke." She couldn't meet his eyes. Once the apologies started, they seemed to barrel out of her with a will of her own, and her voice broke slightly as she continued. "I'm sorry I hurt you, baby. I'm sorry I let you down. You were the only thing good I'd ever done, and I screwed up. I loved you, I really did, but I just didn't know how…." She lowered her face in her hands, not wanting him to see the tears, stunned and grateful when she felt his arms around her shoulders, when she felt him pulling her in, comforting her like she should have done for him all those years ago. "I was a terrible mother, Ned. You deserved more. You deserved so much more than me, and your bastard father, and the family I trapped you with. I won't ask for your forgiveness. I won't put you in that position. But I won't let you spend another second thinking it was because there was anything wrong with you." She looked up, no longer worried about the tears or the humiliation or anything except the knowledge that her son knew and truly understood this one truth. "There was _never_ anything wrong with you. You were a beautiful, good, loving son, and you did nothing to deserve what I did to you."

Ned stared at her a long time before softly kissing her forehead. With the pads of his thumbs, he wiped the tears from her cheeks, his expression kind, his eyes sad and deep. "You…" His voice was hoarse and cracked, and he had to pause to compose himself before finishing. "I saw what Grandfather did today," he said. "In the hospital room. I saw him play you, and I saw you take the fall for it." Ned shook his head. "I don't think I will ever live long enough to understand you, Mother."

Tracy said nothing. She nodded, and admitted at least to herself that she could understand the young man's frustration.

"I have no reason at all to believe anything you've said, Mother. About loving me. About not wanting to leave me. No reason at all."

His words cut into her stomach, played with her insides, and left her breathless with pain. "I know," she said simply.

"I want to believe you. I want to believe this was all some bad dream that got out of control, that maybe you did love me. Maybe you missed me, just a little bit—" His voice cracked, and he found that he couldn't continue for a moment.

Tracy drew in a deep breath, steeling herself to pull out of his embrace. It was the most wonderful place she'd ever been, this embrace from her son, and she was reluctant to give it up. But her selfishness had gotten her here. She couldn't let her greed for this warmth, this comfort, keep her from doing what she needed to do. She reached behind her, got out her purse. In it was an old-fashioned Dayrunner. She'd had it for years, kept it on her even after she got her PDA. She opened it up and turned to the little flap inside the back cover. She pulled out a faded envelope with international markings and handed it to him without a word.

In a young script, the envelope was addressed to Tracy Quartermaine in Port Charles, New York. The post mark was 1980.

"What is this?" Ned asked, his voice shaking.

"Open it," she answered.

He carefully opened the envelope, which was fragile, its edges almost completely worn through, and pulled out a sheet of onion paper and a small picture. It was himself, twenty-four years younger, standing next to a Moped. He had to laugh, both at his hair and the bike. "God," he said. "I hadn't thought about that bike in years." He read the letter, standard fare thanking his mother for the bike, telling her how it would help him get to class on time, blahblahblah.

"The last letter I ever got from you," she whispered. "I've read it so often I could probably quote it to you backwards."

He examined the photo. It was worn too, faded with age. There were fingerprints on it, smudges over the face especially. This picture had been handled, often.

Ned began to cry, and this time, the embrace was instigated by Tracy. His mother.

They stayed like that for a long time. When Simon poked his head in the chapel door, Tracy saw him, but didn't release her son. It was too good, this feeling of togetherness. She knew they were far from resolved, far from completely repairing the damage that had been done. But it was a good start. She smiled at Simon in the doorway, mouthing the words 'I'm sorry' silently.

He smiled back, grateful to see her like that, and mouthed the words, 'I love you.'

And then he was gone.

_Coming in Chapter Sixteen: Insomnia_


	16. Insomnia

**_Chapter Sixteen: Insomnia_**

It was three o'clock in the morning when Simon heard the knock on his door. He shook himself awake, dragging, unable to fathom exactly where he was or what he was doing. He had a vague memory of a plane trip and several thousand insane New Yorkers, but that was where his sleep-fogged mind gave out as he grabbed his pajama top and threw it on, unbuttoned, to answer the door.

It was Tracy, dressed in a robe and gown, her eyes wide, her hair messy, standing in his doorway. It came rushing back to him—the fire, the red-eye flight, the Quartermaines. It came rushing back to him, this woman who wasn't exactly who she was, who was more scarred, more brave than he'd ever dreamed.

"Insomnia?" he asked.

She nodded, and he gave her his hand, bringing her into his room.

"Nightmares?" he continued when she didn't start speaking. He pulled her into his arms as she nodded, holding her shivering body tightly, brushing her hair smooth.

It seemed like a lifetime since they'd left Seattle. It seemed like the world was a different place, so far removed from his little reality that he'd never look at it or anything in it in quite the same way again. He kissed the top of Tracy's head and did something he never thought he'd do. "Do you want to stay the night?" he asked, and felt her arms tighten around him, felt her head nodding silently against his chest.

When he led her to the bed, he knew this night would be platonic. He was too tired, and she was too fragile. He knew when he lay her down, pulled the cover over her, slid in behind her to cradle her in his arms, that he would have to be the knight in shining armor.

It was a role he didn't mind.

As they lay there, there were kisses, sweet and soft against cheeks and temples and jaws. There were whispers of encouragement, and whispers of apology. There were hands touching, cautiously exploring the lines of faces, the strength of shoulders, the expanse of the back. And when they fell asleep in each others arms, safe, connected, Simon knew he would never feel anything like this for any other woman in his life.

_Coming in Chapter Seventeen: Sugar-free, Low-fat Recipes_


	17. Sugar Free, Low Fat Recipes

**_Chapter Seventeen: Sugar-Free, Low-Fat Recipes_**

She blamed their lateness on her forty-five minute call to Annabeth. But the truth was, Tracy was stalling, hoping against hope that Alan and Monica would be gone by the time they arrived, that nobody would be there except those promised her—her mother, her son, and her grand-daughter.

Breakfast turned out to be a rollicking affair, a bawdy brunch with all of them telling stories on the others, with Simon being questioned and screened by both Ned and her mother, who assumed there was something going on between them. Tracy had stayed well out of that discussion, still flustered as she was from awakening in his arms. She didn't fully remember going to his room in the middle of the night, and although she knew nothing physical had happened between them, it definitely felt awkward.

It felt good, too, but mostly awkward.

Tracy could still taste the echo of strawberry crepes on her tongue when Lila put down her napkin with an air of regal finality. "Ned, Brooke Lynn. Please entertain our guest. Tracy, dear, I need to speak with you privately in my study." The old woman motioned to Alice to clear the brunch dishes, and rolled away from the table and out of the room without another word.

With a helpless look at Simon and Ned, Tracy shrugged and followed her mother into her study. It was a warm place, so very much suited to Lila. Tracy sat where she was told, on an overstuffed couch that had a wonderful view through the window to where the rose garden would bloom in the spring. It never occurred to her to question her mother, to push. Lila wheeled around the room expertly in her chair, going to the desk and pulling out some papers.

"Here is a list I drew up for you, dear," she said, placing the papers in an envelope and putting them on the desk. "Don't forget them. I've kept my paperwork on Freedom Energies in the drawer with my delicates, where I knew your father wouldn't find them." She smiled wickedly at her daughter. "Women things make him squeamish, you know. Unless they're in use." She laughed when Tracy blanched at the mere thought, and continued. "Now, I've got my broker set to purchase a few shares when the company goes public, but I thought it best to make sure your father wasn't up to any mischief. As far as I know, he doesn't know Freedom Energies from a hole in the wall, and I'd like to keep it that way until you're safely passed the offering."

Tracy nodded, stunned. Maybe she had been away too long. It hadn't occurred to her to think this way, or maybe she just didn't want to. But it made sense, especially where Edward was concerned.

"I'm worried that now that you've made contact, it will occur to him to wonder what you're up to. It wouldn't be hard for him to find you—all I needed was a private investigator." Lila shook her head, a sour look on her pretty face. "I hate to think that this is necessary, but here is a list of all the company names your father uses when he's out to—" She faltered a moment, then continued with determination. "Should he try anything against your company, he would use one of these DBAs," she said firmly. "Be on the look-out for anyone seeming too interested in your stock, especially in you."

Tracy swallowed, trying to digest what her mother had said. It was perfectly possible that Edward could destroy her company with a single phone call. Everything she'd worked for, everyone she was responsible for—all gone because of one vindictive old man. "I promise you, Mother. I won't let Daddy hurt my company." Her voice was hard, sure. She knew she sounded like a female version of Edward, but she didn't care. There was no way she was going to let her own family issues destroy something so important to so many people. "I swear to you."

Lila nodded solemnly, then smiled, lightening the mood with her breezy tone. "Oh, dear. Now I don't want to spoil our visit. I actually have something else to give you, my darling. Something I've held on to for quite some time."

"Mother, you don't have to give me anything," Tracy laughed. When she realized that this was probably the first time that particular statement had ever come out of her lips, she laughed even more. "I didn't come home for presents."

"Oh, I think you'll like this one, my love." Lila rolled around the desk, across the room to where an old shoe box was sitting on the shelf. She picked it up, put it in her lap, and rolled over to Tracy's side. "Here you go, Tracy."

Tracy accepted the shoe box with a confused expression. The top and sides of the box were clearly marked in Lila's bold, unmistakable print. "Sugar-Free, Low-Fat Recipes?"

"Open it, dear…."

She took the lid off the box. There, neatly bundled and tied off with ribbon, were dozens of envelopes. She turned to her mother, curiosity burning. "I don't get it."

"I labeled the box 'sugar-free, low-fat recipes' because I knew nobody would ever open it," Lila laughed. "Look at one," she prompted.

Tracy pulled out the first bundle of envelopes. They were addressed, again in Lila's neat, European handwriting, to her. Tracy Walker. Seattle, Washington. In the bottom left hand corner, there was a date.

_3/1981._

"I've written you one letter, every month, since you've been in Seattle. Nothing special, just gossip. Just to let you know what was going on in the family." She took Tracy's trembling hand in her own, holding it with more strength than seemed possible from her thin, withered fingers. "I knew someday you'd come home. I knew I couldn't send them to you while you were still estranged, it would have been cruel." She stroked Tracy's hair out of her eyes, looked into her face with all the love that went with those letters. "I'm so happy you're home, Tracy," she whispered.

"Me, too, Mother." Tracy couldn't say any more. She stared at the letters, stared at this tiny history her mother had created for her. It was acceptance she held in her hands, faith and fierce loyalty and undeniable affirmation of the fact that, no matter what happened, at least one person in her family had never stopped loving her. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I love you, sweetheart."

And then she was wrapped in her mother's arms again. She smiled at the scent of her mother's perfume. It hadn't changed in the years she'd been gone, and Tracy reveled in the familiarity. "I love you, too, Mommy."

They pulled apart. Even Lila succumbed sometimes to the Quartermaine distance, and she seemed a little overwhelmed by the emotion in the room. Her voice was brisk, that beautiful English crispness Tracy always associated with love and safety and protection. "Now, are you certain I cannot talk you and Simon out of leaving tonight?"

"I'm sorry, Mother. This trip was unscheduled as it was, and we have to get back to Seattle." She didn't add that there was really nothing more she could do. Edward had rejected her, Ned and Brooke had already agreed to come up for the IPO in a month. Alan and Monica, well, they were Alan and Monica, and nothing she did would change that. So aside from her own selfish need to be with her family, Tracy could find no real reason to stay, and many reasons to return to her own life and take care of business.

"Will you at least promise to come for a visit at Easter?" She clapped her hands together when Tracy nodded, albeit reluctantly. "And please," Lila added conspiratorially. "Please don't hesitate to bring your young man with you."

"He's not my 'young man,' Mother," Tracy protested, feeling her blush growing. He wasn't, really. But the thought of his bare chest against her cheek upon waking this morning had her blushing again. "He's just a friend."

"Well, invite your _friend_ then. I like him. I like the way he treats you." She sighed, a thoughtful expression in her eyes as she watched her daughter. "I like that you've found a man who is good to you, dear, even if he is 'only a friend.' You deserve that. You deserve to be happy."

Tracy smiled. She had her letters. She had her mother. Soon, she would have her son and her granddaughter back. She had her company, and she had two of the most amazing friends anyone ever asked for. It occurred to her, in a heartbeat, sitting there in her mother's sitting room, that she was happy. Deliriously happy. Peaceful, content, loved…

And happy.

"I love you, Mother," she whispered, pulling Lila into a gentle embrace. "Thank you for everything."

"Don't be afraid of him, Tracy," Lila whispered into her hair. "Go to him before you leave. Defy him. Don't let him get the better of you before you go, no matter how much you want to." She pulled away, her face tight and serious. "Face your father one more time before you leave. Walk out. Don't crawl."

Tracy nodded, her stomach clenching. Mother was right. She couldn't leave it like it was with Daddy.

But she didn't want to do what she knew she had to do. She didn't want to risk him destroying everything that brought her such joy. Of course, if he thought she was weak, that she couldn't defend herself against him, he would stop at nothing to torture her.

She was back on his radar again, heaven help her.

And Tracy knew, more than anything in the world, that there was only one person who could protect her from Edward Quartermaine now.

Herself.

_Coming in Chapter Eighteen: Parting Words_


	18. Parting Words

**_Chapter Eighteen: Parting Words_**

He woke to find her in his room.

He'd thought maybe she was Skye at first. She walked softly, and smelled sweet as she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

He pretended to be sleeping.

"You make think I'm weak, Old Man," she said. Her voice cut into his brain. "You make think I'm frightened. You may have them all cowed and domesticated and under you thumb."

Her breath was on his skin, her hand on his throat. He had no doubt she could kill him if she wanted to. He admired her guts, considering this was a hospital and she wouldn't have much time for an escape, if murder was her intent.

"But I'm not that little girl anymore, Daddy," she said fiercely. "I'm not afraid of you, I'm not dependent on you, and I'm not going to let you hurt me or anybody I love."

She pulled away slightly, her scent lessening, her voice a little more distant. Edward didn't open his eyes to look at her. Let her think he was asleep.

"Trust me, Daddy. I see it more than they do. We're alike. The good, the bad and the ugly—I'm your only true heir. I don't want your money, and I don't give a shit about the wreckage you call ELQ. But if you lay a finger on what's mine, I promise you…" Her hand tightened around his throat, cutting off his air for a moment. "Next time, you won't be faking it."

And then she was gone.

Edward waited a long time after he heard the door shut before opening his eyes. He could still feel the impression her slender fingers had left on his throat, could still smell the remnants of her perfume in the air.

His daughter was a ballsy little vixen. He had to give her that.

And with that thought firmly in his mind, Edward L. Quartermaine began to laugh.

_Coming in Chapter Nineteen: Red-Eye, and the Rules are Reiterated_


	19. Red Eye, and the Rules

**_Chapter Nineteen: Red Eye, and the Rules are Reiterated_**

They fell asleep in first class, shortly after take-off. When they awoke, it was dark, and they were somewhere over the Midwest.

They had figured out that the arm rest between them could be lifted, and leaned against each other for comfort. The only other passenger in first class was an older businessman, more content on his scotch and his laptop than on what was going on three rows ahead of him.

So they ignored him. They were tired and happy and filled to the stuffing with the picnic dinner Lila had given them. They had made fools of themselves in the airport, laughing over the sandwiches – watercress and dainty little cucumber things – and the red checked blanket she'd thrown into the basket. In post-9-1-1, such a basket was a giant target for security, a reality Lila couldn't have known. But they'd taken out each item for the security guard, feeling giddier and more amused with each little delicacy they found.

Her mother was matchmaking, they both knew, and it just seemed hilarious to them to have it done before an airport audience. But the food had been delicious, and much more satisfying than airport fare, and both Tracy and Simon had secretly enjoyed the spectacle of eating a picnic lunch in the Northwest terminal while waiting for their plane.

Now they woke over North Dakota, or Iowa, or one of those middle states, full and sleepy and not quite ready to return to the world of reality. Tracy shivered in his arms, reaching up to check the "little blower thingy" as she called it. It was already off, but the cabin was still freezing.

"Hold on," Simon said as he stood, opening the overhead compartments in search of pillows and blankets. He came back with two of each and tucked a pillow under Tracy's head and spread a blanket over her. Then he squeezed back in to the window seat and did the same for himself.

"Still cold," Tracy yawned, her voice a little pouty and very, very cute to Simon's ears.

"Gimme a second," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the other first class passenger, who had apparently fallen asleep over his laptop computer while surfing porn. Simon reached up, adjusted the blankets until they were both covering Tracy, then pulled her into his arms to share the blankets. "Better?"

"Much," she murmured, burrowing into his embrace, more (he suspected) for his body warmth than for any erotic purpose. But he wasn't going to complain as her scent filled his nostrils and her breasts lay soft against his abdomen. Her hands were clutching the lapels of his jacket lightly, and she felt good against him as she dozed.

It wasn't much for the position to lead to a kiss, first tentative, then a little more exploratory. It wasn't much for the kiss to lead to tongues intertwined, bodies hot, hands exploring under the blankets. It wasn't much.

Actually, it was too much. Tracy pulled out of the kiss, her face flushed, a look of embarrassment in her eyes. "Whoa, Einstein," she breathed. "Let's pull back here."

"Sorry," he said, but he wasn't. He wasn't sorry at all. In fact, he was ready to get past this whole talking thing and back to the warmth sharing. But he controlled himself. He let himself be controlled. It was still Tracy's game. It would always be Tracy's game, as far as he was concerned, and that was fine with him.

They would play it anyway she wanted to play it.

As long as they continued to play.

"Do we need to reiterate the rules, Professor Fullerton?" she whispered, her words breathy and arousing in his ears.

"Knock yourself out, Boss Lady," he said, kissing her neck playfully. She protested, but not too hard. Encouraging….

"Rule Number One—"

"Business first. Always business first," he recited, licking her earlobe.

"And family. We should add family," she said, flustered.

"Okay. Rule One: Business and family first."

"And why do business and family come first, Professor?" Her hair was tickling his skin, and he nipped at it with his lips.

"Because business and family are why we're here."

"Exactly. We are not here for fun, or for games, or for moonlit strolls through the garden of life…."

"But fun and games and moonlit strolls are what make life worth living, Boss Lady." He had his fingers in her hair, toying with the strands. In the dim light of the cabin, she seemed luminous, mysterious, and he wanted her more than anything or anyone he'd ever encountered. It occurred to him that this might be like all the other times, that there would be this closeness, this togetherness, and then she'd pull away, run away from him for months or even years until she managed to get her bearings again. But he didn't care. He didn't want to live his life in fear of her reactions. He kissed her again, firmly but with respect. He let her know, in the force of that one kiss, that the hesitation was coming to an end. That he loved her and wanted her and wasn't going to be pushed away by her fears or her nutty family or her hesitation.

And she kissed him back, with equal force, with equal determination. When they parted this time, her eyes were locked squarely with his. She wasn't flinching, she wasn't running, and she wasn't avoiding his intensity. She smiled, her entire face brightening with the motion of her lips. "Sure of yourself, Professor?"

"Very. Sure of myself, and sure of us."

She lowered her eyes. "Look, Simon. I appreciate everything you've done for me in the last 48 hours. More than you'll ever know…" She met his gaze again, resolute, but kind. "So much has happened. I don't think it's fair of us to start something like this now, when there's so much chaos around. I'd hate to think that we would ruin our friendship—this _family_ we've created—for a moment of confusion."

"I'm not confused. I wasn't confused last week when I loved you, and I wasn't confused twenty-four years when I fell in love with you across the table in that crowded Student Union. And you can run, you can go back and hide behind your work and your distance, but know this, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm solid. I love you, and I'm not going away"

She nodded, her hands on his shoulders, her hair glimmering in the dim cabin light. "I know. I…love you, too. I know that. And believe me, sex is not a bad thing, and I won't rule it out for us." She gulped, as if that admission had taken its toll on her. "But to do it now, like this, after everything that's happened…"

"Yeah," he admitted, still staring at her. "I know what you mean."

"I'm not going to disappear," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I'm done running."

"You said it, kiddo," he cheered, his voice lost in her hair, his heart lost too. For good this time.

_Epilogue:_

It was three in the morning, and Tracy Walker couldn't sleep. She shook the water from her hair, the short ponytail flapping behind her as she removed her raincoat and hung it on the coat rack inside the front door of the condo. The bag she held was plastic and contained two small acrylic frames from the all-night drugstore down the street. She'd brought the disk with her there, to print out the photos on professional paper, and picked up the frames on a whim.

Pulling off her sweatshirt, she tossed it on the rack next to the jacket, and went to her office wearing only her tank and sweat pants. The shoes had been abandoned on entry, and she padded barefoot through the condo, staring at the pictures she'd printed.

Jason, the photographer from AP, had done a wonderful job on the one of her with Ned and Brooke. She stared at them, three generations of her blood, smiling back from their table at the party. Each so different, but connected, continuous. She slipped the photo into one of the frames, and set it on her desk. The next picture was of her with Annabeth and Simon, her other family, not blood but just as connected. Three lost souls, brought together by money and pain and shared history. The mother who wasn't her mother, and the lover who wasn't yet her lover.

It seemed poetic, that the first pictures she'd have of herself in years would be these two. She put the one of her with Annabeth and Simon in the other frame, and set it next to the first one.

They looked great on her desk.

She picked up her phone and called Annabeth. When she heard the line click on the other end, she said, "Annabeth, I'm sorry."

The voice on the other end was accented and very groggy. "Tracy? What time is it?"

"Three in the morning."

"What's wrong? Do you want a drink?"

Tracy smiled into the phone. "Not really," she admitted.

"Nightmares?"

"Not a one."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Then what possible cause could you have to call me at this ungodly hour, young woman? And why do you sound like you're smiling?"

"Because I am smiling, you old witch," she teased. "And I couldn't wait—I just needed to know how you were enjoying your first night as a zillionaire?"

Annabeth laughed on the other end of the line. "Well, if you must know, my phenomenal wealth makes me terribly attractive to the opposite sex. I've been fighting them off with a stick ever since the market closed."

Tracy laughed as well, holding the phone away from her mouth as she did. "Listen, take it from the voice of experience. Boy toys are nice, but don't give them a key to the apartment. You'll never get them out of your house if you do."

"Is it okay to pay for dinner?" Annabeth asked in a tone of mock curiosity.

"Sure, and expensive gifts are good, too. It's not like they're there for your mind, sweetheart." She plopped down on the couch, not caring for the moment what her damp sweats would do to the upholstery. "So am I to take it that you got lucky tonight?"

"The only male I let in my bed is my dog Chester, and he's fixed, thank you very much," Annabeth said tartly, although there was no mistaking the affection in her voice. "Now, stop wasting my time and let an old woman get to bed."

"I love you, you miserable old woman," Tracy said.

"I love you, too, you little workaholic. Get some sleep."

"Yes, Mom," she said as she hung up the phone. It was six, Eastern time. If she could stay awake another half hour, maybe forty-five minutes, it might not be too early to call her mother. But she had promised to bring Ned and Brooke to the airport at nine, and she had to get at least a little sleep.

Tracy stared at her apartment. The walls opposite her reflected the glow of the city through the windows. It was a beautiful cacophony of light and color, playing on the surfaces of her home. She loved it here, and wondered how she'd ever failed to notice it before. She picked up the phone, and pressed a different speed dial.

"Hello?"

"Hey, handsome. How are you enjoying the lifestyles of the phenomenally wealthy?"

Simon chuckled at the other end of the line. "Insomnia?"

"Yup."

"Nightmares?"

"Nope."

"Well, you know, it's kind of rude to talk to you while I have a bed full of Mariners cheerleaders sleeping over."

She laughed—at him, not with him—and continued. "So, are you meeting us for breakfast at the Market tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he murmured.

"Coming to the meeting with Chancellor and Ramirez on Thursday?"

"I promised I would, didn't I?"

Tracy nodded, pulling her bare feet up under her. "And are we on for our date Saturday night?"

"Date?" She could almost hear Simon's eyebrows rising. "Did we have a date on Saturday night?"

Tracy drew in a nervous breath. "If you want to. If you're still interested, now that you're rich as Croesus and of interest to nubile young cheerleaders, that is."

There was a long moment before he answered, and the silky tone of his voice made her skin prickle in a most delightful sort of way. "I'm definitely still interested. I've just sent the nubile young cheerleaders packing, if it matters to you."

"Thank you, Professor." She was biting her lower lip, edgy and excited and frightened all at once. "You know, if it's too soon—"

"It's not too soon, Tracy," he whispered into the line.

"Because I know that any life transition, even something as wonderful as gaining a tremendous amount of wealth overnight, can cause stress—"

"Stop playing the AA tape and talk to me. Do you want to go out with me on Saturday night?"

"Yes."

"And by date," he said with a mischievous tone in his voice. "We mean a hurried dinner, then frantically back to your place to act out our long-suppressed but overpowering passions in a healthy but terribly creative way?"

"Uh, by date, I meant maybe dinner and a show." She laughed at him, at his audacity, at his constancy (which she loved but found utterly unfathomable). She laughed at how much she wanted him, although she was certain she could describe every line on his face, every strand of his hair. "And if you're a gentleman, maybe a chaste kiss goodnight."

"I'm in," he said without hesitation. "Now, Boss Lady, you need to get some sleep. Your family is going to be waiting for you to take them to the airport."

"My family lives in Seattle, baby," she said as she hung up the phone. "My family never left."

The End


End file.
